i. All morning the sun lifts itself higher into hazy skies. It’s not its usual bright September white against blue but a gooey orange, more like an early summer morning. I saw that summer sun dozens of times this year, as I tiptoed across the house while everyone else slept. It cracked its egg self each morning while I sat at my desk tripping over words. No meaning, no triumph. Nothing like a sunrise or even a broken egg. What I would have given to touch that rich yolk, even for a …
lyric essay
September 14
The other day, my father-in-law dropped off an old hammock that now sits in the middle of our backyard where I am lying and swinging lightly. The weather is breezy and sunny, the air crisp and alive. Fall is on its way, if it isn’t already here. It’s too early to tell. Everything is still green, but if you look closely there’s a bit of red and yellow on the fringe, working its way from the outside in. I lie in the hammock with no shoes on. It feels perfect. One of the hummingbirds that’s …
September 10
When I listened to the message from the bus driver last night after dinner, I cried. My husband had driven to the park to pick up our daughter from softball practice and our son was in the living room watching TV. I stood at the kitchen sink, tears streaming, dripping from my face to my shirt. I didn’t wipe them away. The bus driver hadn’t said anything in particular, just wanted to touch base in case I had questions. She’d be a little later this year, she said, but she’d see me tomorrow. …
September 7
We spend the weekend at the lake, the last of the summer. Maybe the last of the year. Everything is blue—blue on blue on blue, whitecaps cresting again and again. Someone once told me that turbulent emotions pass in ninety seconds or less if you give them room to roll through. I hold my breath, let the waves tumble me, then I’m back, head above water again. How long can I hold my breath? The water covers land as far as I can see. Somewhere out there is the other side. Somewhere out there …
September 4
I sleep long and hard, my dreams vivid, colorful. I wake lightly, keeping my eyes shut for as long as I can. It’s fully morning and I am again myself. Downstairs, I find my husband at the kitchen table, the coffee already made. In the dawning light, I see out into the backyard: a lily we transplanted from our neighbor has finally bloomed, a bright, white blossom against the early green. Pouring my coffee, I say I hadn’t noticed it yesterday when I mowed the lawn. “Maybe yesterday was a …