Blackberries

    Blackberries are my symbol for spring. Freshly washed and atop my dollop of yogurt at eight in the morning. I'm shining and you're shining, too. The window is open. Exposed brick reflects the timid sun. The sun. Its dreary hiatus never lasts but on solemn, grey days, I wonder if this year will be a special case. But no, here it is and this same beam grew our blackberries. I'm smiling and you're smiling, too. 

    Our breakfast table seats are scooted up close together because we want to touch. Last night you played me the guitar for the first time. You wrote a song about taking a shower in a water fountain in San Diego. Tears streamed down my blushing face as I asked God, "How'd he end up here in front of me after all this?" God laughs and reminds me of the good I deserve. Reminds me to make room for miracles while I take my own hiatuses. I know and God's knowing, too.

    So I reluctantly leave the immortal feeling of a morning. It takes us a long time to depart from each other. There always seems to be one last joke to make. One last fleeting thought or look of adoration. It's spring. There are blackberries. I'm in love again. My bike is extra blue and especially heavy as I heave it along the apartment building stairs down to the street. Although the sun is out, my hands freeze in place on the handles. I'm too lit up from the morning to crease my brow about the weather today.

    The day that follows is really just a day. Biking, reading, working, pushing, pulling. Mechanical things. Redundant, not depressing. I carry out my day in graceful motion even if the most exciting thing was waking up. The morning is the divot of time where things are as they are. Later into the hours, I make calls and pretend to be older than I am. But the mornings lately are melting like goop over everything. It's because I'm happy. I really just am. Blackberries are growing. I'm growing, too.