Brief Morning Prose

I submit there is no smell like the smell of fresh coffee in the morning.
My eyes are slowly waking, and outside, the sunrise is about to unfold.
The sun is peeking over the homes in my backyard and a string of small birds have gathered on the telephone lines.
I notice the colors of morning as they mix with the clouds, and waiting on my kitchen counter, the coffee machine makes its last rattle before shining a pretty blue light.

I stare through the blinds of my window and watch the sky evolve from darkness. Overhead, white clouds feather across the heavens as if God himself has painted them with a brush.
I take this view of peacefulness and sit back to feel a moment of purity…

Alone in the warmth of meditation, I feel myself withdraw from the hustle that waits for me on Monday morning.
I begin to think of a small town at the end of Route 80. I think about the long drive to this place and the large billboard, which is an advertisement for fireworks, and it stands across the border in Pennsylvania.

Just off the exit and further down Route 611 North, there is a small diner with waitresses that remember your name. They know the regular customers as well as the times they show.
The décor of a place like this comes without flash. It is simple, but the breakfast is incredible, and the families that visit are sure to leave fat and smiling

Every day, at around noon, an elderly couple sits down at the same table and order the same dessert they’ve been ordering for decades.
The old man comes in, well dressed, hair combed over to the side, and nods politely to the hostess.
His wife follows behind. Her hair is white; her clothes are proper, and the two resemble something from a Norman Rockwell painting.
I see this place as unmolested by city life. I see it as quiet, and though it has been years since my last visit, I can see this place in my thoughts as if I were there yesterday.

I can recall the left turn from 611 North onto Rimrock Drive, crossing a small bridge with an old barn falling into itself on the left side of the road. I think of this place often
I think of what it means to me and the dream I accomplished in an A-frame cottage.

Inside the cottage is a small kitchen with an outdated stove and outdated fridge. The television is perhaps older than I am, but the fireplace is warm, and the smell from the air is clean.
The deer pass through often, and overhead, flocks of geese migrate to wherever it is they migrate to

This was the last place where my Mother, Father, brother and sisters were all together. This is where I had my first, but awful introduction to skiing, and this was the last weekend vacation I had with The Old Man.
This is also the place I finished my first published work. My daughter caught her first fish in the nearby pond, and that weekend, I learned what it means to sit by the fireplace and do nothing but watch the wood crackle.

Enjoy your Sunday, folks


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