The Start Of The Day

When I awoke this morning the world was frosted with a delicate mist of snow. I made a pot of coffee and watched while the finest drizzlettes of powder shed off the batting above. The stream bumbled over itself in a seemingly frantic dash to get somewhere before the deep freeze. The lights from across the way have gone out now, making ready for the day. Each time I look up from my writing the snow is heavier. I'm drinking my coffee black and unsweetened and even so I can call it a perfect start. I hear my boys breathing deeply, a little bit of snore now and then. To have them close by is my idea of perfect.

Yesterday we barreled up the canyon bee-bopping to rap, rock, reggae, hip-hop and funky punk. They made me laugh 'til I cried. I seem to be the perfect audience. Sweet Erik, being only 17, is in the middle of the 'Know It Alls'. He often lets me know how I should have done this or that better than I did. Sometimes it makes me feel as though he doesn't much care for me. But then he does last night he held out his arm for me to take while we crossed an icy patch and then when I started to withdraw he squeezed my hand so I wouldn't let go. That small gesture was all I needed to erase a years' worth of careless remarks.

I could sit here watching the snow, drinking black bitter coffee and listening to my children breath forever! These tiny single flakes sometimes floating lazily, sometimes almost thrown to the ground, sometimes swirling in dizzying confusion; each built from an invisible mote; each different

from the next - and they say there are no such things as miracles.

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Eric Cockrell's picture

incredible piece. you take the reader with you on your journey... i can taste the coffee... can feel the cold of the snow... have girls of my own... kwow well the peace of listening to them sleep. loved this prose poem. eric