6:14 am. 28° F. Friday morning.
You push the start button, the engine fires. The heater begins to blow. The wipers clear the morning dew. The transmission slides into reverse. Sirius beams down from the satellite circling, silently, way above. You turn the dial and it’s Seals & Crofts. “Summer Breeze” fills the cabin and you mouth “makes me feel fine, blowing through the jasmine in my mind.” It fills you like Guskin’s current of heat running through your body, as if you’ve swum into a warm patch in a cold lake. Your eyes scan the traffic in the right lanes, orderly, flowing. They shift to the horizon, the sunrise burns amber into the light cloud cover.
And there it comes. Heart-side. A morning rush of sorts. The cables affixed to the poles – a mild current jumps and sparks, stops and starts up again. This continues for two to three minutes, a morning call in recent weeks. This intermittent squeeze, a crack in the earth, the bedrock shivers.
You look back out the window at the horizon, at the ethereal palette of blues, and Seals & Crofts wraps up:
Little light is shinin’ through the window
Lets me know everything’s alright
You pull into the basement garage. You turn off the radio. And then the ignition. In the shadows, in the empty garage, you sit, still and quiet, staring at the concrete wall in front of you.
And then, you count your blessings.
And you count again. And, again. And again.