The city sweeps out below us.
I am foggy from the sounds of rumbling trucks that blew in through the open balcony door all night.
19 stories up the fragrance of caramelized onions, earthy mushrooms and toasted sesame carbs float from the kitchen to my morning perch. Hints of the care and effort being made to delight me, to show appreciation for my being, fill the sun-dappled grey-blue apartment like whispers.

Cat-like on the dark grey wool couch, my hot pink sweater striking a contrast, I am curled up and content, watchful, observant, but lazy.

I feel a tingle of energy in my toes. The desire to write, to capture this happy moment, wraps around me like the blanket I’m buried under. Outside, my October view begins its annual lesson. The city made of trees reminds me that nothing lasts, so best to enjoy it while you notice it, while it’s here. Best not to get caught up in trying to hang on to what can never be guaranteed to begin with. Just enjoy the sight of yellows, ambers and ochres, the occasional flame of red or orange against the sour greens that remain. Just enjoy the handsome, dark-haired man in the kitchen, humbly making me breakfast because he adores me.

Soon they’ll all be bare and grey and brittle. At present, there are still hints of summer in my heart. I am warm, but falling softly until grounded. One needs unshakable faith that spring will come again, in order to fully let go. I witness the beauty of the fall, nerve-wracking yet graceful at times. Swirling, spinning, rising up by following the flow, until it’s right up by this window, where I clearly see what is.

Oh to freeze this moment, this hazy dreamlike feeling, the deep appreciation of what unfolds before my eyes. And then release it to the universe, trusting that something always sprouts from nothing if we leave life to its regularly scheduled programming. Just watch.

In the bathroom my deodorant, face wipes and ear plugs sit in a drawer and I’m amazed that I’ve resisted taking out a full page in the newspaper to let the world know. Little roots, maybe, but I must also accept that these sprouts might not survive the harsh winter. Best to stay rooted to the now.

I catch his eyes, catch him stealing a glimpse before his brow once again furrows in concentration as he stirs. They match my coffee, deep and bold, breaking the soft-focus and snapping me crisply to attention. I take a breath and shed a few more leaves.

Author: MariaCallas

Maria Callas is a pseudonym

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