Winter Morning Print

Winter Morning I open my eyes slowly, reach out to feel Davey’s empty place next to me, disappointed I stretch like a cat, as muscles, bones, joints come to life, like Pinocchio transforming from wood to flesh, I breathe into the new day. My mother kept the heat on 55 degrees at night. On winter mornings growing up, I sat crouched in a ball by the heat vent, eating Frosted Cornflakes and milk, Comforted by the warmth and smell of the heat, Until I could turn out to the cold in my grown-up school clothes, face the distance between my family’s embrace and the world that threatened to swallow me Or spit me out, mangled. At lunchtime, I flew over the sidewalk cracks, past the dentist’s office, down the hill to the cul-de-sac, Gooey grilled cheese sandwich and minestrone soup waiting for me, My mother welcoming me into her kitchen of garlic and potato smells, and that steady, glowing light. Today, I dress slowly, luxuriously Looking for the warmth, staying in the shower a little too long. I haven’t quite crossed over into my persona yet: professional, social, moderating and mediating, measuring words, calculating responses…. My breath is visible but a dream refuses to dissipate as I drive to work.