It’s a peaceful morning. The grown up girl snuggles down into the soft comfort of goose down and memory foam for a few more minutes. Rises to fly through the morning prep routine. It’s a crazy morning. Horns honking, tempers flare. The guy drives his mustang as if he’s in a rally race. On the urban freeway. In rush hour. The grown up girl smiles, remembers slower days.
Smudged pink shorts, pudgy fingers and freckled nose hunch down to turn the roly-poly into a ball with a touch. It rolls easily around her cupped hand until she gently lets it down into the gravel and waits to make sure it uncoils and crawls before she moves on.
She leans over the railing across the urban ravine. Latté waves dance and foam as the creek swirls its way westward. How does the water run down that way when the road beside it runs up? Why is there a forest where the creek bows to enter the shadows?
“Could I float on my wooden boat, let go the string from the road shore, hang onto the nail mast and float safely round the corner into that place where no houses are?”
She’s pulled by the faint buzz of the drifting yellow jacket. Follows it to the corner beside the wooded lot. Four trees stand guard, tall creaking shadows cover the unexposed. Overgrown remnants of an abandoned shack lay piled at the back like dirty clothes. A deer slow grazes the thick grass. Darts away as she steps into the dappled shadow. Nothing else moves but the breeze.
The school bell buzzes. She’s late again.
Forty-five years later, the grown up girl is on time to work. She didn’t eat breakfast but she did roll the dog over for a tummy rub, water her flowers and photograph the interplay of light between the granite and the heavens. It’s a peaceful morning.
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