Walking. With skin still porous.

950 consecutive (almost) days. Like in a row. The morning walk @ daybreak at Cove Island Walk.

I’m up. 5 a.m. Grab iPhone, tap Dark Sky app, forecast: 98% overcast, 32° F, feels like 26° F. Too damn cold.

I feel Wally at my feet, it’s warm here in bed. Lay here. Cozy with Wally. Skip today. Skip today. Skip today. But with the 1000th day like right there, there can’t be a break of the chain. Yes, 1000 days, an artificial milestone, no significance vs. 950, 500, 437 or any other damn number.  Alan Burdick, from Why Time Flies: “Only the clock moves, its tick steady, unhurried, relentless. At these moments I have the clearest and most chilling understanding that time moves in one direction only.”

I get up.

I look back at the bed. Susan asleep. Wally under the covers stirring, but even he knows better not to get up at this hour in December.

It had to be around 1 am. I felt him. I was out, 2 Advil PMs out, and felt him crawling up the length of my body. He gets to my head, and tucks his head into the crevice of my neck. He shifts left, right and left to find just the right Wally spot, and he drifts off. I could feel his breath, and hear the soft whistle of his nose. And feel his little heart beat slow. It’s been 1.5 months, and he’s now Family, and he’s taken over the bed. And the moment left me wondering why it took so long to get Wally.

I’m out the door.  Wind gusts up to 25 mph. Goosebumps huddle for warmth on top of each other.

There’s no traffic. No humans out. No sane humans anyway.

Speedometer clocks me at 25 mph, slow for me, a sign that the body, and my foot on the accelerator is resisting, this morning habit of mine that is beginning to fray, and fray me at the edges.

And, right then, out pops Peter Cottontail. The road narrows, no place to swerve. They’re fast. I’m sure he skooched safely to the other side. A near miss. Sigh.

I pull into my parking spot, unreserved, but mine for the last 950 days. I sit in the car, heater running. Go ahead, drop your window, snap a few shots, say you did it and call it a day.

I sit for another minute or so, the heater blowing on my feet, and get out.

I walk.

The wind finds every exposed surface of my skin.

Bono: “I wanted to write about what was going on beneath the surface of the skin because mine felt porous, oversensitive to everything around me. I didn’t need any extra stimulation. It was as if I couldn’t brush past someone without feeling them intensely.”

98% overcast, but that 2% was beaming down on me.

I walked the shoreline, the same shoreline that was pounded by waves overnight. The beach was hard, smooth, like glass.

A flock of Canada Geese flew directly overhead, feet above me, their wings beating, like a drum roll, the whites of their underbelly’s shimmering.

I check my watch. 75 minutes have passed, somehow I’ve managed to lose myself in time, the cold no longer biting.

I turn to walk back, a part of me regretting that there would be no sunrise shots today.

And on cue, here she comes, the 98% overcast becomes 95%, and the sun’s rays, oh those rays.  I rush to the north point to get a clearer shot and she was gone…but that moment will persist.

I get in the car, the beauty of that sunrise, still fresh. The drum of the wings of those geese still fresh. Wally’s nuzzling of his head next to mine, still fresh.

…yet the drive to the park was long forgotten.

And there on the road, in the same narrowing of the highway at the final turn to Cove Island Park, lay the rabbit.

 

Comments

  1. Life is good, DK. Life is good.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. That was beautiful… and so sorry about the rabbit. Hugs to you. I hit a cat on Monday – in an 100% industrial area. Or rather, it ran under my car. What the hell was it doing there? I felt the two bumps under my car and then nothing. I don’t think a tire rolled over it but I had someone right behind me and I couldn’t slow down to see. Too many 18-wheelers parked on the sides of the road.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. the sun always rises and all of life comes and goes in an instant

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Annie Littlewolf says:

    That “golden hour” of sunrise is mostly a “golden moment”…fleeting but gorgeous….

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Phenomenal writing, honestly. The line about the goosebumps struck me as especially creative.
    RIP rabbit 😭

    Liked by 1 person

  6. What a gift, this slice of the sunrise you got to feel this morning. This is preserved for the few who get up, go there, and stick with it.

    I wonder too, what took so long to get Wally. He seems to have brought so much delight. Do Susan and you feel new-parent tired at times?

    Liked by 1 person

  7. All is beyond well…in your home! The coldness, darkness, and slowness brought forth elegiac photos illustrating those moods. Maybe we all, with you, needed to see some sunrise–like joy to pierce through!
    You seemed to be being forced to go very slowly before the rabbit ran across…. (sorry!)

    Liked by 2 people

  8. Another powerful piece, pal. Absolutely adored the visual of Wally snuggling in. Is there anything sweeter than that warmth and those soft snuffling sounds? So glad that Mother Nature came through yet again, and so damn sorry about the bunny. I hit a squirrel the other day and had to pull over…thought I was gonna be sick. 😔

    Like

  9. <

    div dir=”ltr”>I’m sorry for the sadness

    Like

  10. Don’t think about the rabbit. Everything else is beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. And that last photo is incredible.

    Like

  12. You were present to the beginning of a sunrise and the end of a life. Beautiful reflection.

    Liked by 1 person

  13. Aw, yes..roadkill wrecks the day of two beings; may it ever be so. Oh my, snuggles with a ♥️ puppy ♥️!! (Susan must be thinking, “Susan WHO??” at those times, lol!)

    Liked by 1 person

  14. Were your skin not porous, these pictures would hold a superficial beauty and lack depth. Were your skin not porous, we couldn’t feel the comfort of a warm bed and a nuzzling puppy. Were your skin not porous, the painful juxtaposition of all of this fantasticalness and the abruptness with which it is gone, wouldn’t have hurt so much. My skin so porous, I still haven’t fully captured my breath – the only thing to eclipse the beauty was its corollary.

    Liked by 3 people

  15. Aww. Sorry about the bunny. Always a sad thing, sometimes unavoidable. Btw, it might make you feel better? It was -12 this morning … and then the wind came up. Yikes. 😜

    Liked by 1 person

  16. What a wonderful/terrible morning you had. I still remember the one time my family drove in an ancient VW Beetle to Italy with us (then) three kids and my dad ran over a tiny dog who ran fully into the street from the market. I heard the two light bumps and I cried for days. Still feel those humps….. But on the other hand, your description is beyond beautiful. You are a wonderful writer.

    Liked by 1 person

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