This morning is a lazy kind of morning. Not so much tired as an apathetic lazy. I've checked out for this week. There's nothing I can really do to bring myself out of four days from now. I'm already there, waiting on the swing in the backyard under my paisley quilt. Mom and Dad are gone for their black Friday shopping and I am just waiting. It is sunny out and a chilled wind wraps itself around the yard. I draw up the quilt and lay down across the seat, swaying lightly. This year seems to be full of moments like this, sighing moments that just deserve to be observed. Human alterations of these moments would be sinful. They are like silk paintings in the wind, caught by a draft in a split second and then sent flying again as time finds itself and remembers who he is. I wait for the sound of a car, for my phone to vibrate in my pocket, but time seems to have stopped. The browning grass ripples in the wind and the trees make no sound but a low moan between their naked branches. I shush them, dropping my eyes to the back door, watching the house glow orange. Finally it is winter. Not many people can say that, but I have always loved the winter. I have always loved the snow and the shorter days, the whistling of bare oaks and bradford pears, hot tea in a snowman mug, pumpkin pie, Christmas candies, the wait for spring. That is what I love the most about winter--the wait between fall and spring. It is timeless. It is frozen. It is a moment to reflect upon the frivolities of summer that needed no analyzation before now. It is a moment to consider who we are, what we are doing and who it is we miss the most.
Still, I am waiting. I am swinging steadily now, resting my head on the bars, curling my toes under to keep them warm. The dog is laying under the swing, snoring. I envy him. I couldn't sleep now if I wanted to. My notebook lays open flat in my lap, a pen poised between my fingers, but I stare off into the distance and let my eyes slide out of focus. That is where I am. Waiting.
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