The alarm clock jiggles and dances at 6:28 AM, and I reach out and slide the lever down, turning it off. The dog, who knows that THAT particular alarm sound is aimed at Mark, whimpers a little, heaves herself out of her cozy dog bed, and ambles around to where Mark is shaking off the sleep.
“All right,” he says, resignedly, struggling into his snuggly robe. “Let’s go outside.”
They leave; I hear the ticky-tacking of the dog’s nails on the hardwood floors downstairs, and then, the opening of the back door.
And I consider: I could get up now. Normally, I’d have been up for at least an hour.
But it is Friday, and I don’t have to work. Last night, I had one of those energy surges, and I finished up all my little hanging obligations. The package is put together and addressed; the notes for the meeting are ready. Letters written, responses made–there is nothing calling me to my computer.
I have nothing that must be done until almost 1 PM.
And the bed is warm, and the room is dark, and I pull the blankets more firmly around me, rolling over and sighing. The dog nudges open the door and jumps on the bed. She circles around three times, then nests herself into the crook of my knee pit. We breathe a deep, contented breath in unison, and we drift back off to sleep, lulled by the sound of water thrumming in the shower.
I wake up an hour later, feeling crystal clear and smelling the definite smell of carbonized toast: Mark’s favorite breakfast complement. The dog looks sadly up at me as I swing my feet over her head and out of the bed; she is comfortably situated. She could stay there all day.
I pull on jeans and a floppy shirt, brush my teeth, stretch, and head into the day. I don’t even make the bed–we change the sheets on Fridays. I have that wonderful, light-shouldered feeling of nothing immediate to do.
The dog and I shlep down the stairs, singing about burnt toast, and Mark pokes his head from the kitchen, where–blessed man–he has turned the coffee on to brew.
“I believe that you exaggerate,” he says, grinning.
I treat the dog–half a Beggin’ strip, a coin of frozen hot dog; she’s already been fed. She declines a rawhide chewy stick and takes her lazy self off to the couch. After a tough night, snuggled up, protecting Mom, she needs her rest.
Mark reluctantly gets up to leave for work. It is casual Friday; he wears his jeans and pulls his old Bills jacket–an anomaly in southern Ohio–over his nubby sweater. We talk about having a little blaze in the fireplace tonight (winter has returned; the high today will be in the low-enough thirties to give us some snow, and right now, it is pretty brisk outside.) He reminds me he’ll be home at lunch, to take Jim to an appointment outside of Columbus. And then Mark opens the door; he lets in a gust of cold, and he plunges into his workday.
And I pour myself a steaming cup of decaf dark roast, pull on my fuzzy, Wicked Witch of the West socks, and open up the local paper.
I remember feeling this kind of freedom–this temporary reprieve feeling–in college on the rare occasions I wasn’t scheduled to work at the supermarket deli at 8 or 9 AM on Saturday. The morning would stretch out, a bubble in a torrent of time, a safe spot to stretch and rest and read. If those mornings had a sound, they would sound like a whispered ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Of course, then as now, I know the bubble is due to shatter. There are worries, real worries, floating outside–I can see them as I sit and read what’s going on in my town–about St. Patrick’s day dinners and speakers at the library and high schools sports games. The clock ticks down for a dear, dear friend, who suffers in her last days. Other friends grasp hands and wait out the weekend, awaiting news that will shatter or heal. Health concerns, and financial decisions, and things that have to be done in timely ways, in and out of work: all these bob around me, bumping, gently this morning, against the bubble walls.
This blessed, respite morning is like a small step out of time.
I walk the dog. We meander in the cold sunshine, and she sniffs to her heart’s content. I pick up the Columbus paper from the lawn, and we come back inside to treats for her and breakfast for me. I split an English muffin on a red Fiestaware plate, put it in to toast, pour more coffee.
Then Jim gets up and asks about the shape and the weft of the day, and I feel the sides of my bubble thinning. Reality pushes.
And the toaster pops and I butter the muffin and I read the news from Columbus, shaking my head over the idea of de-funding libraries, de-funding the arts, and I realize the bubble’s sides have quietly melted. I’ll read my paper now, do my word puzzles, and I’ll slide, feet-first, back into the torrent.
And it is good to deal with things, to face the pain of loss, to check the email, to run the errands and strip the bed and have the conversations and take care of all the myriad details that weave the fabric of daily life. I do not want to shirk one thing; I want to be there, for the good and the bad and the things that wrench our hearts.
But it is good, too, every once in a while, to have that cozy, fleeting bubble descend, encompass me. It is good to turn off the alarm, to roll over with a sigh, and let the day start without me.
I will take care of business; of course I will. But I’ll do it better today because I have slept in.