After a night at the hospital with my father, the late morning approaches and I rest on the lounge chair on Mom's back porch. Before I can doze off under the thick, cream colored down comforter I've been covered in, a breeze, more Autumn than Summer, weaves through the tin windchimes they bought on their vacation in Maine. The rest of the house is quiet. Dad is home and resting so everyone else can, too. The tests said nothing serious...and so now sleep is acceptable.
The charcoal colored cat slinks out and stands at the end of the porch, staring at goldfinches he will never catch, a woodpecker he'll never get near, a yard that his clawless paws will never explore. He is a bitter cat, but tries not to show it.
I shift on the lounge chair and close my eyes. The twenty year old Bleeding Heart bush is on the verge of blooming and I can smell each lip colored flower as the wind trips over it, bringing it through the screens. The chimes ring again and I flip to the other side. A crystal vase of mom's champion peonies reflects what little light can cut through the yellow white clouds that cover the sky. It's a cloudiness just weak enough to make everyone think that the sun is 'trying' to come out.
"You have to look for a patch of blue," my aunt always said. "A patch of blue big enough to make a dutchman a pair of pants."
That's how you knew the sky was going to clear.
I'm not falling asleep (even though I know I have to), so I look at the whitewashed walls, the antique barometer with an Eastman Kodak advertisement painted on...the delicate, lime green fern sprouting from a pot that hangs from the ceiling. On the ground, well mannered dolls sit with their hands at their sides on miniature chairs from flea markets, painted and stained a weathered, slate blue.
The cat leaves me.
The chimes ring.
I hear the house stir, the coffee start to brew, just like every normal Saturday.
And I sleep.