Sunday's Closure

It was one of those mornings where I was up real early, not because I couldn’t sleep but because I was done with it. Closure hit my dreams as the stories folded themselves up like accordions and my next move was only to put on winter socks, assemble the stovetop coffee drip and look out my Columbia Street windows. The Battery Tunnel, the auto repair shop and the buildings and billboards of Red Hook sat quiet caught between sky and snow, and not a single footprint or paw print, had made its mark. Unlike yesterday, which felt like an outdoor whirlwind of going places and seeing people, there was nothing to do today except enjoy the coffee and let the morning crawl. Michael was not far away. Like me, he was up early, if not earlier, doused in blanket and wearing headphones, tuned into a podcast. It makes me so happy to be marrying another early riser, someone with an appreciation for the morning. I had a small crafts project I wanted to do, maybe even finish, that I knew would go great with my coffee and so I set myself up at the kitchen counter and started working on it. I was making 16 handmade cards of exact width and length. Materials called for scissors, glue, paper, and the mind zone for repetitious exercise. Forty minutes into the morning, inspiration for a blog post hit and I immediately grabbed my laptop and went to go sit in the rocking chair by the window. It was one of those mornings when everything seems perfect, it is almost strange – the coffee is strong, the sunlight is dripping in slowly, you love your fiancé, it is Sunday, you are inspired. I wrote a long post, a sentimental one, one that I thought about circumspectly and with care. I choose my words like I move my chess pieces and this post had been a good game. And then it happened. With one faulty click of a key that I wish I could remember what, my post was gone. No draft saved, no remnants of sentences, nothing. And like that, the singing bluebirds of Sunday morning fell out their nest and died. After I was finished breathing hard in Michael’s arms, I got mean and said: “I hate Tumblr.” He quickly snapped: “Don’t hate on something that’s your own fault.” I thought about that for a minute or two, after slamming my laptop closed, after whipping the blanket-wrap I was wearing around my shoulders all morning onto the bed, after angrily washing a fork I saw in the sink for no real reason other than to have something to do with my hands. I had two choices. I could finish off Sunday as an angry, sad, and uninspired person, or I could finish off Sunday as if I had sipped really strong coffee, turned pretty paper into handmade cards, enthused a great piece of writing, and then cooked a delicious February soup. (I have a kale, sausage, and red lentil soup simmering on the stove now.) Even though my post from this morning doesn’t exist anymore, I feel good knowing that it once did.