It's the morning

It's the morning and I've crawled from my bed. I would've stayed longer to feel the warmth of the covers, to dream in the dim light or to feel myself in a position of comfort with rest still upon me. Those privileges are for the few and I am of the many so, it was time to get up.

The light was dim in the hallway as well as the living room but the cats had already pointed the way to the kitchen. I merely had to follow. I've made this trip thousands of times in the last 15 years and the precise steps are imprinted indelibly upon my brain.

As I entered the kitchen, I took my traditional turn to the left. This is where the pantry lies and is the keeper of the cat food. I can hear a number of trills and purrs as I open the cabinet and look down to the faces that weave themselves between my legs or turn their heads up to meet my sight. Those visages have changed through the years but my purpose has not. It is through myself that these handsome creatures are fed and they study my movements as I gather bowls and open up cans. It is their time of the day and they await their meals intently with an occasional stray 'hiss' to be replaced by another purr. They wish a generous portion for themselves.

I take each bowl and place it in its familiar place as they eagerly move into position. I gently take each tail moving it through my fingers to feel each individually with the silken fur. I then pour myself coffee. It's my time now to think of a new day as I can hear only munching from bowls and the hum of the dimmed chandelier above my head at the kitchen table. The fleece of my pajamas is comforting, the mug warms my hands and the solitude elicits thoughts of new plans as well as little prayers uttered softly in the dimness. It's the morning and another day is mine.

I look around the room to see what surrounds me as I hear birds awakening from outside and the refrigerator freezer dropping new ice into its cache. My jacket is still slung over the chair from last night and the kitchen towels are hung neatly upon the drawer pulls of the cabinetry and oven. The oak island of the kitchen holds a white straw basket where I put the pens and scissors needed for my work before I change from my uniform for my shower. The scatter rugs are displaced from felines chasing each other after a dose of catnip. It is what it's supposed to be.

With one cup of coffee down, I move to my living room to sit on the couch that I once used as a child. It is from here that I survey the pieces around me. The chinoissere is filled with Royal Doulton ladies in different poses and colors. Some come from my grandparents and other's from my parents. I have added a few since I received these pieces of my legacy, making sure that they harmonize with grandma's "Top 'o' the Hill" or mother's "Sunday morning." The Lladros encompass the center glass shelves with a figurine of a slender girl holding a bird in her hand. It was the first Lladro that my parents had ever purchased. I vividly recall mother stating to examine it if I ever wished to remember what I looked like at 16. There is also a tall and angular student nurse that was acquired while I was attending school. beneath it lies a sticker in my mother's handwriting. It says "Diane."

I can see the large cuckoo clock that my father affixed to a wall many years earlier, watching its pendulum swing and hearing the tick of its inner workings. As the door is opened at the hour or each half hour I am rewarded with the presence of a hand painted bird that chirps the time and brings me back to another similar clock in a house of long time ago. It is most treasured due to the fact that it was placed there by my father as I started a new life in my adult years. My marriage had ended and my mother thought that it would bring me back a little bit of joy. I feel that I have hold onto it for its comfort rather than its beauty.

As the light intensifies I can see the crystals that hang in the window of this expansive room. They once graced a chandelier from a hotel that was visited in the 1930s by movie stars and the elite. Those persons owned mansions upon the river in a resort town off of the Gulf of Mexico. They would often dine at it's restaurant. With the years, the hotel had fallen into disrepair and the chandeliers followed. The gilding was worn and the crystal chains were pieced together with wire in places. I purchased one of the pieces, disassembled it taking all of the crystal chains and lovingly cleaned each. They now adorn the windows of my home throwing off rainbow projections upon my walls in the form of bursts of color ranging from a bright yellow to a deep indigo. The vivid hues stand side by side by those emitted from the cut, spear shaped crystals of my parlour lamps upon hand carved library table. They still retain their silver plating and the cardboard sockets unused in lighting now for decades. It is a show played daily and a reminder that there is more in this life than one can see with the naked eye.

The oak of my grandparents' dining room table shows a grain unduplicated by today and the breakfront's drawers hold locks that can only be accessed by skeleton keys. The Art Nouveau lamp is reflected in the beveled glass mirror of its back and the top shelf holds pictures of family both here and gone but indelibly stamped upon my heart.

I finally rise from the couch and move towards the oak curio cabinet that holds the remnants of days when my memories were first formed. On the bottom shelf is the set of Lenox Holly that my mother would set out upon the table after Midnight Mass. Not only are the plates, cups and saucers placed there but the candlesticks and vases that would hold the holiday arrangements and red tapers. Within the breakfront I know are the tablecloths that she used for this important holiday tucked away safely.

The next shelf holds the Depression glass of my Irish Grandmother. Through the savings of soap box tops she accrued a menagerie of pieces from salad plates to parfait glasses. Most are pink, but clear and amber pieces can be found without. I only saw them at times of great celebration at my grandmother's house. They were all put carefully away after each use where young hands couldn't find them. They are an eclectic grouping and I prize the scrolled design upon each cup or saucer.
Above this shelf is more glassware from a genteel time where crystal was chosen for weddings that would last a lifetime. Both grandparents' stemware is present, from champagne glasses to wine with unique characteristics in quality. I can still envision standing side by side with my mother delicately washing each piece and flicking the edge with a finger to hear their chime. I remember our laughter as we compared the lyrical notes between the crystal of each family. My father's family was well off and all pieces would carry a lyrical ring. My mother's family consisted of a no-nonsense, blue collar Irish stock. It was no surprise that their stemware would produce a "thunk."

The top shelf holds crystal and porcelain from my great grandparents' time and begs the releasing of the latch of the curved, glass door for the full effect. When opened I can detect the scent of my grandparents' home and am brought to a place where I looked up into this five foot tall piece. I would have to stand on a chair to see the uppermost shelf undetected. I now see salt cellars of the 1920s and goblets of every design imaginable. There are candelabra of sterling and etched crystal and have survived only due to the hands of those that cherished them.

With the mug of coffee almost gone, I carefully close the door of this sanctum and latch it tightly. The sun is now fully in my favor and the cats are spread upon the carpet as the warm rays caress their fur. The mug is placed into the dishwasher, my bed is carefully made and I attire myself with the clothing for a new day. That is how I spent the early morning. How about you?