© 2023 Lynsey

Let’s pretend

I like to think that our family room is a writing studio. I sit here early in the morning with a cup of coffee or peach and pineapple tea, and imagine I’m a writer. Banging out insights to astonish and delight discerning readers everywhere. Like what real writers do. Truth be told, probably more than half of what gets written never sees the light of day.

On sunny days the sun streams in from the moment the sun crests the hill on the other side of the valley. It’s gloriously warm and I feel like I’m part of the cosmos somehow. I woke too early, and stayed in bed checking on Orion’s progress as he sloped past our bedroom window. When the sun starts to get up I feel obligated to join in. I don’t know if I’m a genuine lark or my alarm has dragged me out of bed so often it’s like a callous and I wake early.

I love the jutting angles and warm colours, somehow sunrise makes everything better. I can remember my first intentional sunrise. My mum woke me up. I stood on a chair looking out the window and waiting impatiently for the sun to climb up over the hill across from the vegetable garden, over where the dog kennels, the stacks of posts and battens, and the cow shed were. Soon too bright to stare at; soon breakfast, and the important things that a young man of three or four has to do in his day. I’m grateful for those simple times.

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