Each year, I’d open the oven to check the turkey, hoping no one would find my curiosities and absolute hunger paining in my side. Combined with a pregnant belly, Thanksgiving that year was by far the best. Opening the oven, the heat and steam rises. They want me to pick up more wine. Blurring takes over my eyes. It might be a good idea if I could read the road signs. “Not on the off ramp!”, my Mom screamed. That same year I got glasses.
The water falls beneath the rock drop, but that she did not know. Feet across the pavement marks 6am. Running to come back to the trail. Sun rises to wake the evergreens. Coffee beams steam the glasses against my nose. There’s another story to be told. In each page of a book is more delicate than the last and the present is all we really have. If the morning wouldn’t take me through it’s monotony then the cats wouldn’t catch my toes so early. But the only way to find out how this story ends is to begin. Hi, My Name Is Caeli.