Reflections from the Low country — Part 5

The door is open.

The flag stands ready under the canopy of moss that marks the history of mornings in this hallowed town.

The door is open.

The breeze from the water mixes with the chill from the air conditioner as old and new find their places, preparing for the heat of the sun while holding on to the respite of the moon.

The door is open.

The dogs guard the porch, watching the morning walkers with curiosity while marking the location of the birds for afternoon stalking.

The door is open.

I sit. Drinking my coffee slowly, thoughtfully, soaking in the quiet, the peace, the promise. It is morning. I’m not yet ready to write the story of today, so I sit watching it’s beginning.

I sit. Content to imagine what extraordinary plot might grace today’s pages. These minutes before I engage, before my part of the drama begins are my favorite. I’m back stage again, knowing my cue is coming but momentarily lost in a world passing just feet from me completely ignorant of my presence.

The door is open. And I am grateful.