The morning is beautiful, temperature 73 degrees, a fragrant, refreshing southwest wind ruffles the leaves in the trees surrounding the house, and snaps the flag billowing on the porch. Yoshi, his ears alert, keeps a watchful eye on the jogger passing by. Insects buzz all around, and a crow caws across the street; I hear a cardinal peeping somewhere, and a multitude of other birds gossiping in the trees. No other movement. The neighborhood is still waking I suppose. This is my favorite time of day: bright, peaceful, full of hope and endless possibilities, no cares or worries, still a touch of sleep in my eyes. Days that begin this way should end this way.
I’d like to walk the neighborhood, stopping to chat with neighbors sitting on their porches, passing the time, maybe having a coffee with them, listening to the life in their homes as voices, laughter, and heartache slip through screen doors and windows. Modern life, however, mostly makes that impossible. Air conditioning, television, radios – conveniences – keep us indoors now; I rarely hear kids outdoors, or see a pile of bicycles in a driveway indicating that one house where all the kids seem to congregate. I drive slow in my neighborhood, not because I think I may interrupt a game of street baseball – they don’t play at that anymore – but out of wariness for joggers darting around cars.
I think I’ll sit here a while anyway, sip my coffee, daydream, and think of what were, to me, simpler times. Of course, I’ll think of you as I always do, and wish you were here.