Evergreen

BREATHING IN

 

The sun has only risen as far as the sixth floor of the 9 story condos in my complex. The air is fresh and smells like pine. It tempts me to turn back and polish my dining room table, scour the shower. Not a car has driven past me yet. No honking horns disturb the peace, the quietude.  Each moment is a treasure that disintegrates when the world wakes.

 

Gradually, as the sun touches the roofs and then jumps over, the sky turns a truly heavenly blue, like the blue of baby eyes. My Polaroid sunglasses hang around my neck on the lanyard my grandson made for me when he went camping for the first time. Oh, so long ago. Without my Rx glasses the glare of the sun on the many windows would surely blind me. 

 

It is the sun that blows the bugle call. Uncountable dandelions lift their faces. Lawns turn into yellow seas. While the dandelions are getting cozy, the buttercups rise. They are sweet and pretty but quiver in the slight breeze. Perhaps they hear what I hear. Lawn mowers growl. They are coming out in force today. Their blades move quickly, sever the buttercups' pretty heads and I silently weep for them.

 

Amongst the sounds of morning's wakening, I hear, I see, the yellow school bus turn into my street. Old man Carlton pulls into the round-about, clicks the button to make any cars behind the bus come to a stop while his kids get on and off. Only the Branson twins wait for him. His load is complete. The bus slowly fades into the distance and quietude returns. I feel comfortable, good, almost alone again. 

 

A middle aged couple comes out of building 1412A and walks towards me. I see them often. They hold hands. Never do I miss smiling to them, saying with a happy lilt in my voice, 'Good morning.' In a moment, my ire is red again. They do not acknowledge my existence, ignore me as if I come from Mars. Perhaps they are deaf but they can surely see me. After we pass each other, I put my index fingers in my ears, wiggle my fingers to resemble caribou antlers, stick out my tongue, letting out some of my animosity I feel towards them. I did no harm and, like a child, feel I have some how paid them back for their rudeness.

 

I walk on, stopping for a few moments to look at the lovely fountains at the entrance to each complex. It annoys me day after day that the colored lights come on daily about 7 a.m. and can barely be seen in the sunshine. Today will be the third time I have reported this waste of money to our Board. Guess what they do. Never mind, you can imagine. They do nothing and in the evening there are no fountain lights at all. 

 

Saturday rolls around again and I am glad to say again and again. Mrs. Dantske, carrying her emptied  plastic bag from the supermarket walks her dog, Pepsi. She whistles like a pro, 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,'
stops to breathe more easily, sings a few lines. As she passes me I get a sweet whiff of Diamonds. 

 

By 9:30 my legs are tired, my ankles swollen but it is too early for me to go back to my apartment, knit, or read, maybe do both at the same time. I opt to reach the elder bushes, sit on a hard marble bench, and absorb the warming sun. Occasionally I  wave to a passing stranger. He/she, will wonder who that was. 

 

A little drop of white rain falls on my skirt. It isn't rain at all but is a gift from a passing sparrow. Before it dries, I must get home and wash it off. I manage to stand and head that way. Inside the lobby, I watch the elevator light descending from floor five, four, three, two, one. The door opens and Conchita gets off, pushing her vacuum, pulling a cart of cleaning supplies.

 

She and the elevator smell like pine. I ride up to 8, go inside, take off my shoes, get a glass of iced tea, rest for a while, then get the sprayer of Pine Sol.