It’s a lazy Saturday morning in August. It’s cool enough outside to sleep with the windows open, offering a sweet seductive Autumn breeze. I wake up slowly, inhaling the mountain air. The rotating fan at the end of the bed offers a chance to slip back into deep sleep, promising not to tell anyone. It hums back and forth, back and forth.
The house is quiet, though the sun is already peeking through a slit in the curtains. For a moment I’m tempted to return to the blissful solitude I just left behind; I don’t want to miss the chance to crack open the book I’ve been reading.
Reaching for the nightstand, my sleepy fingers find the worn cover quickly. As my eyes adjust to the ink, my fingers rouse as they touch each page. I’ve entered another blissful state of solitude. The crisp sound of each page turning is a massage to my ears.
In the kitchen I hear my coffee maker turn on, the liquid dripping and pouring into the red ceramic mug I placed there the night before. I guess I do need to pull myself out of bed, but my book is coming with me. As I walk down the hall toward the kitchen, the dog starts to wag. I smile to myself, loving the sounds of my lazy Saturday morning.