a small essay about my friend, the morning

our words are all visual these days.

it’s been a long time, baskerville.

i’ve watched the sky change from royal blue with billowing clouds to the now barely-colored pastels with pink whisps, the flaunting peacock tree branch waving its feathers all the while. it’s like it was in the air. at some point i removed my tiny wrist computer: a small rebellion for disconnection. i chose a stemmed glass tonight. i’ve sat here in this evening for hours, relishing its presence that will never again be replicated. i am getting eaten alive. the candles are not working but they are lovely in this dusk. creeping jenny neighbors my right, monastrell my left. a huge bowl of blistered shishitos for dinner.

the pink whisps are nearly gone.

the soundtrack tonight is a bit unusual for me. twangy. calm and centered and happy. this feeling of contentment and yearning all swirled together like the best beachside ice cream cone. it feels right, on this cool june night, those tiny upside down daisies drying out on the post, this book in my lap. grounded.

i try the visual vocabulary. a log i keep for myself, for the deeper, sweeter moments that don’t need primping. the thin places. it doesn’t work this time. i find myself flicking through — pause here to acknowledge the lightning bug. hello; i love you. flicking through suggestions. boredom, comparison, how quickly the habit returns. but then, ignition. it’s a series from different sources, of sticks of butter and blocks of cheese, mugs of black coffee and plates of scones and breads, with all their crumbly bits gracing the landscape. and all of the sudden i am elated. this.

this evening, which has settled into a blue jay dusk, it whispers. i get a whiff of western pennsylvania mountains, intertwined into my fibers. evening breathes sweetness.

but morning, it speaks. of knowing, of identity. genuine existing. my heart actually skips.

it’s always been this way. up before dawn; i am eight years old. quiet, alone, before the earth breaks. these are secret moments, almost stolen. utter stillness. i cannot put words to their beauty. and as these moments progress and pop open, one by one, the regality becomes loud. morning spins with day in the most perfect of minutes i can ever imagine, and i wish they would never leave. the magic of a morning table, solo or together, is seemingly unspeakable. the rings of sips on the insides of mugs, the anticipation of the bits that will break the fast. perhaps it’s indulgent, with peanut butter toast. or simple, salted butter on something sour and hearty. or nostalgic and soul-recovering, cereal with milk. or leftover cake. or a runny egg covered in parmesan with jellied toast by its side. or tomatoes tossed in olive oil and sea salt, sandwiched between watercress and slices of cucumber, atop a cream cheese-mounded bagel. whatever the choices, crumbs are everywhere and different forks have dipped into every plate and the food becomes the host. they are all my favorite. this table— it is hardly perfect (except for maybe that one morning at the cottage in perth), and it is extremely fleeting. it requires a kind eye, experienced mind, and soft heart to be grasped. but once it has been found? a friend unlike all the rest.

these visuals that have become our only lexicon— they are never meant to stand alone. beautiful as they may be all on their own, i believe they are one voice of a very thoughtful conversation. one in which every player is integral, and the gravity of one cannot be well-known without the presence of the others.

so may we stop and let our eyes eat up the convergence of blue sky and green leaves and red brick. let’s see the inspiration and let the words flow. whatever speaks to our depths, let’s let its beauty seep to the bottom so we soak in it and later return to the surface with untainted intrigue.

the night above is a dusty indigo. secret morning will soon come round.