I thought about staying in bed,
and writing later,
but I knew better.

Standing bleary eyed in the kitchen
waiting for the coffee
I had forgotten to prep last night,
so it would be
waiting for me.

The ground is wet from rain.
I curse forgetting to put away the patio cushions.
Nothing to be done about it now.
I plod to the studio,
unlock the door,
step into the darkness.

The heater whirls.
The energy saving bulb grows brighter.
I open my small black journal.
pull my silver fountain pen from the leather case
made from Grandfather’s attache.

The words begin to lead me,
into thoughts
I never knew I had.
The letters grow bigger,
the spacing larger
as my hand tries to keep up.

I pause to take a drink of coffee,
growing cold
in the large clay mug I use every morning.
I see dark eyes watching through the slats in the blind.
I stare back for a moment,
then return to the page.

The coffee’s nearly gone.
I take small sips to savor it.
The words begin to slow.
I listen to the last of them

before attending to the children.