Here the morning is perfect: bright sun, cool air, the barest hint of breeze on my skin as I walk outside. I savor it, knowing mornings like this will vanish for six months of summer. I want to pull out a chair and sit in a beam of sunlight, eyes closed and letting my mind drift where it may.
The silence reminds me of the too short window I have while my children are away. I see stuffed animals strewn on the floor and imagine my daughter’s smile, even though she hasn’t been gone an hour.
Less than three left.
Laundry. Dishes. Cooking. Forms.
Here piles of paper remind of bills to be paid, paperwork to fill out. I see the stacks and worry about my son and the following year of school. I am frustrated with the public school system—it knows it is broken but instead of seeking fix, it insists on doing the same each year. My son and the system are at odds and I worry.
Here a mountain of tissues rests at my side, reminding me I cannot inhale this morning or taste it—just see it. I long for the ability to smell again.
Here I grab these five minutes before heeding the call of Things to Be Done.
And in a blink, they are over.