mornings

These days, I get up earlier than I did in the other house. The brightening sky lights our bedroom through the single, large window. It’s still gray outside, but the birds are singing. It will be another gorgeous day.

I pull on a hoodie and tiptoe out to the kitchen. It’s cold. I can see my breath. I slide open the metal barn door and peek outside.

I can see the moon! I grab my camera, slip on my husband’s sneakers (I’ll apologize later) and head outside.

There are dew-drenched spider webs everywhere. The valley is thick with fog.

The ground is silvery and wet. It glimmers and shimmers in the sunlight.

The workers, machetes in hand, are tromping by in their rubber boots on their way to The Big House.

“Buenos dias!” I call quietly, and they singsong the greeting back to me. Suddenly, I am self-conscious of my pajamas—black leggings and long shirt—and fancy camera, so I scuttle back inside.

Coffee time! I fill my teapot with purified water and set it to boiling. While I stir the hot water into the coffee grounds and push the water through my aeropress, I heat some milk in a small saucepan. There is no half-and-half or cream here, so it’s café con leche every morning.

It’s time for the kids to be getting up, so I turn on lights and start clattering dishes, emptying the drainer and getting out the skillets. I chop up the potatoes that I baked last night (the hot oven helped make the house cozy) for the morning’s fried potatoes and whisk a dozen eggs. There will be ketchup, too.

“Breakfast is almost ready! Get up, get dressed, make your beds, and come eat!” I holler at the children. They groan and burrow deeper into the covers. My husband joins me in urging them onward ho.

Soon Luvia will be arriving, and the day will be underway.

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