Saturday Morning

The sparrow, jay, flicker, chickadee and robin serenade me from the holly tree, berry-laden, just outside my bedroom window.

"Hey, you noisy bunch—it’s Saturday—let me sleep!"

But the birds insist, "it’s time to get up!"

Groggily I swing my legs to the floor and will my body upright. Elaine, on the other side of the bed (away from the window) buries herself deeper into the comforter and exhales a little row of Zs. "zzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

The outside air wafting through the window carries essences of fir sap, grass, and from somewhere nearby the faintest scent of a rose.

I shuffle to the other end of the house, start the teakettle and step outside. The newspaper waits in the driveway in its plastic bag. I peal the plastic from the paper and carry it to the deck. Light the first of my six daily cigarettes. I do like the aroma of a Pall Mall!

The kettle whistles me to attention. In the kitchen I brew tea—the steam rises from the pot and promises familiar tastes and aromas to what may become an unfamiliar Saturday.