It’s late, for me. The sun is well up. Birds are chirping. The day is on. I slept late. Lounged in bed. Didn’t move except to change positions. The pillow was warm. The dreams were sweet. The house is quiet. Maybe it’s a good thing to be surrounded by sleeping children, the yet untroubled by anxiety crowd. All I know is that I’m moving slow this morning.

Of course, I mostly move slow these days. I mean, why not. What’s the rush. On the road, I think I’ve become the older driver younger drivers curse as they race hither and yon. Although I still try to do the speed limit, I have noticed the impatience of following drivers who think the pace slow and drive close and pass with urgency. I don’t know what to tell them. I’m no longer in that game.

And now the house is stirring. Kids are up. I’ve been hugged twice. Not something that happened when I worked in newsrooms crammed with writers and clacking typewriters. But those are the old days, and I’m with the grandkids and they have things to tell me that just can’t wait, and why should they. And in just a minute I’ll take my coffee and go sit on the patio and we’ll all welcome the morning and plan our respective days.