Wake up to a slight chill in the air, a quiet morning with leaves strewn across the sidewalks, brown and red and orange and yellow, preparing to crinkle later that afternoon once the morning dew glistening upon them evaporates. Throat is a bit scratchy. Pull up the covers for an extra moment of soft warmth before stretching out, rolling to the side, bare feet on wood floor.
Wipe eyes, grab some water, and go shut the window accidentally left open overnight leading to this moderate discomfort and grogginess. On second thought, it’s going to warm up today. Not too much. Just enough to keep the window cracked and let some warmer air make its way through.
Out the door, to the kitchen, striding gently and quietly so early in the day, trying to avoid the edges of the floor that habitually creak.
Ah, warm relief from the living room rug. Remember back, just a minute ago, when the sheets were pulled up, everything protected against the air that is fondly referred to as “crisp.” The thicker patterns in the rug shield against drafts from the windows—also left open—that spill across the floor.
Walk to the window and peer outside to see new piles of leaves collected on the sidewalk, listen to the birds chirping as the sun breaks through the mild canopy of the neighborhood, and smell the slightly humid air. Eyes cast about, taking it all in, then rest on the small red plastic bag at the base of the porch stairs.
The Sunday paper has arrived with its bold headlines, Associated Press blurbs, comics and box scores, and hyper-localized reporting. It is quaint and fun and supports a good cause; it is the perfect reading material to skim through on a calm, quiet morning.