Thursday, May 10, 2012
I have always gotten up extremely early in the morning, and seem to have inherited this from my parents. My father used to wake me with a kiss before he went off to work on weekdays. For years, he worked as a milkman and pieman, delivering fresh supplies to far off towns. He would leave at 3 AM or so, rattling around in the kitchen before he set off into what was often forbidding weather. On weekends, unable to stay in bed, he still got up about 5, and would ask me to join him as he took the dog for a walk. I don't remember whether my mother was up at that point, or whether she was getting ready to get up. We had only one bathroom in that house. Even now, I still get up at 5 or so. The cats insist that I do it, even on weekends. They want to be fed, want me to throw open the shades so they can stand watch from the window. There might after all be some lizard they could stalk from their vantage point on the six foot cat tree, or a neighbor's dog they could growl at from the safety of their perch near the door. This morning though, for the first time I can remember, after feeding them at 5, I went back to bed and got up quite late. It feels as if the morning light is already well used, softened, like a much worn shirt.