1. I am not the first one awake.
2. The way the sun splits the trees, red and orange. And the fog rising above the wetlands.
3. Two old fashioned sour cream donuts with coffee.
4. On the front stoop I stretch out my legs and lean my head back into the sun. I can still feel the tightness in my ribs as I breathe into this moment.
5. It's been so long since I had a Brunello di Montalcino. Montalcino. Mon-tal-chino. I like the way it sounds in my mouth. In another life I'd have been French or Italian and spoken in romantic whispers.
6. Dream. Blue velvet cloud.
7. The sound of Euro pop from the garage. How it makes me laugh until I cry. How it reminds me of the Russian who, when installing the subway tile, blasted Euro pop and N'Sync from a tiny black stereo.
8. Barefoot on the stoop. The warmth of concrete beneath my feet and on the backs of my thighs. This makes me feel most alive.
9. This time with them. The months apart are sometimes too long and I am craving the return of our circle. It is with them I become my best self.
10. On the long ride home I think of the old neighborhood with its Irish neighbors, the tall oaks, the holes in the sidewalk. I think of how I missed the peonies in bloom on Van Buren and the sound of the church bells. I cry.