Tuesday Morning

The alarm sings from the phone on the bedside table and I let it go because I only choose sweet melodies to awaken to and this one threads through my chest as though reminding my heart to beat. My dog Blue, who happens to be white and deaf and a puppy at heart but five years into his lifetime, nudges me onto my feet and I slide my finger across the phone’s screen to silence her, too.

My coffee is always black and usually dark and never disappointing in this early hour. (There typically are no such things as “always” and “never,” but coffee somehow defies the rules.) I pour it’s heat into a mug that states, “Bee Kind,” and I marvel at its hand painted bumblebee. Blue watches me, waiting impatiently. I take two sips, pour the joy back into the coffeepot, and turn to him to ask, “Outside?” with the sweep of a hand signal to my shoulder. He understands: Yes. Yes, let’s go outside.

Days like today are easy to notice and sink a memory into. The sky is untouched and spreads out like a perfect blueberry jam. Neighboring trees crowd for room to stretch their slowly budding springtime branches upward, the wind offering her guidance in soft, slow abundance. Looking down, I notice the return of green — dew has replaced the frost once again this morning and if grass could giggle, it would.

I smile instead.

The houses sit silently and there is a rumble a block or so away from what must be a large, bumbling truck. Blue visits with most of the trees lining the street and I don’t mind because I love to look up through the stretch of branches and into the blueberry sky. For a moment, I wonder what Blue smells and then, just as sudden, my mind is overtaken by a song I heard yesterday.

I let the lyrics carry me down Fourth Street and back to the coffee sitting patiently for me in the glass urn on the counter. I slip off Blue’s leash, he hurdles back to bed, and I smile as I pour the heat once again into my bumblebee mug.

It is a Tuesday Morning.

And it will last forever because I wrote about it.

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