Rendered Fat Content



"I will have in EarlyMorning warmed up the bed for him to wallow around in …"

The diners and coffee shops seem to fill with geezers first. Later, the driven corporate types trickle in, thinking that they've seized another day, only to find the territory already settled by second-cup sipping self-satisfied retirees, hard-core unemployables, and maybe a writer or two, those for whom EarlyMorning offers their sole refuge. Nobody watches them rise. Nobody's even trying to catch them along their way. They will become increasingly invisible throughout the following day. They have little left to aspire after, having found their eigenvalue, though they find great fulfillment acknowledging that they once again managed to beat that lucky old sun at his own eternal game.

Not even the magpies hear him rise.
He's out in the street, gazing up at that day's infinity long before it's learned to count again. Last week, stepping out into the driveway to smell which way the wind was blowing at four am, a jogger slow-hopped by without even acknowledging my presence there, though I knew he'd seen me. How could he not have seen me standing there, big as a bear, gawking up at the sky? A certain protocol governed his passage. Not even whispers properly respect the solitude then, only silence and feigned indifference could properly acknowledge that shared space. We are never, ever alone.

I swallow my daily ration of pride long before anyone else ever arrives on the scene. A moth might batter against the window, drawing my attention just long enough to somehow amplify the spell. I will sit by the utter fiction of myself, ruminating on the present possibilities, for then, the whole day consists of nothing but possibilities. I will slowly winnow out the more unlikelies before settling on any next move. Yesterday, I forgot to drink my morning coffee, only discovering my oversight when I was preparing supper, late into the evening. I only drink decaf now.

I sit knowing the sun will shortly catch up to me, unmasking my anonymous presence and dominating the rest of our day. By the time he departs, I might have already returned to slumber, for I must get to bed early if I expect to beat the sun at his own game the following morning. By the time tomorrow's sun shows his first distant shadows, I will have already captured my day. I will have almost nothing left to say to anyone about anything, another curious success achieved. Daylight serves as a coda on my day, an afterthought following my original thinking for that day. Like those smug retirees, hard-core unemployables, and writer or two awaiting those who intend to seize each day, my day will have already settled around my midsection like a side order of hash browns smothered in green chile gravy. Unlike that lucky old sun with nuthin' to do but roll around heaven all day, I will have in EarlyMorning warmed up the bed for him to wallow around in for the balance of his stay.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

blog comments powered by Disqus

Made in RapidWeaver