Rise

To wake up at 6:30 and throw a sweatshirt around my shoulders, walk from my suite to the main house, to arrive at the door to see the cat wanting in or wanting out, wanting to be fed, wanting to be petted, to go turn on every light I turned off last night at 11:00, get the papers from outside the huge wooden front door (they rest on the expanse of tiled marble) and then to turn on the music for breakfast, check the math on the receipts, preheat the oven, cut the fruit, assemble the fruit bowls, make whipped cream, adding orange zest to it because we're having orange french toast, to line the sausages up one after the other, but don't forget to line the pan with tin foil and even PAM if you feel up to it - and then to brew the coffee, heat the kettles, pour the coffee, pour the hot water, set them on the bar, greet the early risers, wait for the sleepers, and begin to serve the breakfast.

To do all this means that afterward I can cross back over to our suite, open the door to a darkened living room, and go to the cupboard for the food.

I can open the bag of food and without a doubt, I will hear whining and crying from the next room. Smokey's awake! The day begins! I feed his bowl and open his kennel. He runs straight for the food. I wake Matthew and sing, "Good morning to yooooou" and he mutters and rolls away from my face.

I go back to the small kitchenette and make coffee, sit here, write this.

I interrupt myself to take the dog outside, come back in, sit back down, and write.

We will live at the Inn only a few more weeks of slow season, and then we will move back home. It has taken over a week, but I am finally beginning to feel at home here, where my husband and my dog sleep soundly, where I have rediscovered my other love, this love.