Morning

She told no one but herself, “Mornings are my little secret.” Something about the mornings, their potential, the idea that they could and would, become anything. Like clay, they were, ready to be molded and shaped, and to dry and harden in the afternoon sun. In a hum, the mass un-acted moments buzzes, waiting to be caught and had. “I could scoop them up by the handful,” she thought with conviction.  She knew a thought that simple, that direct, would stick and fasten itself to her mind like a button on a sweater.

These thoughts carried her through the routine of waking and rising, readying herself for her day, though her movements were less of a routine and more like an elaborate sort of dance.  Coordinated movements spurted into existence, leaving her mind free to churn ideas, examine them at close inspection. She never liked being tied down with details.  In fact, she preferred the vagueness, or as she called it, “being neither here nor there,” but instead, “all places at once.” She liked being flexible, liked being a verb rather than a noun.

For Amelia, some days ripened and released in bunches, like water, which pooled on the edge of a roof and dripped downward.  She could tell from the start that today was not going to be one of those days. Today would built up in a heap of static poses and advance at varying speeds; a single frame, moving at a pace that was not her own.  Still, it suited her and snuggled her tight, enticing her with its secure predictability.