Rarely do I open my eyes on Saturday mornings before the sun begins to rise, unless old Lucy gets restless and begins to meow and wander on my bed. And I usually linger there once I begin to wake, listening to the birds, looking out at the tree just outside the window closest to my bed. I try to ignore the stack of clean laundry on the chair and the pile of mail on my dresser as I pull back the covers and hurry to find my robe or a sweatshirt to ward off the chilly morning air. Lucy and I walk downstairs with purpose. I’ve got coffee on my mind, she is hoping for a scoop of cat food. She never used to get that in the morning, but she’s just too old to argue with, so once I’ve started the coffee I usually give in and add a scoop of canned food to her bowl.
I pour a small glass of grapefruit juice and search for my favorite mug as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing. Lucy, satiated, begins to purr and circle my legs. I add a little half and half to my mug and fill it with coffee, wrapping my hands around the warmth, watching a little steam rise from the surface.
Lucy and I climb back up the stairs and onto my bed. She settles near my left hip as I pull the covers over my legs. The light streams in the window on the right now that the sun is higher in the sky. Today there is a mist that filters the sun, and I notice fog blanketing the field below my hill.
This morning I open my computer first, to write my slice. But some Saturdays I read, or knit, or gather my notebook and pens and write there. Sometimes I listen to a podcast or Ted talk. And I always head back down for a second cup of coffee, but return to bed to read or listen or write for the first hour of my Saturday.