The Morning Had No Agenda

July nineteenth. The light came in the way it only does in the second half of summer, not tentative anymore, just settled into its angle, like it has decided where it belongs and stopped apologizing. I was at the kitchen window with the coffee and I did not move for a long time.

I have written about this window before. The arrangement on the sill. The gap that earned its place. The cord that arrived sideways and stayed. What I don't think I've named is what it's like in July specifically, when the morning light hits from a slightly different angle than it did in June, and everything on the sill throws a longer shadow than you expect. The two photographs looked different this morning. Not changed. Just differently seen. Carol's small object caught a stripe of light I don't think I've noticed before.

The windowsill in July light. Every year it looks a little different and I cannot explain why.

The bowl is still above the stove. Gerald's vine still grazes the shelf below it. I stood there long enough that the coffee went from hot to warm and I didn't mind. There's something about summer mornings before the day asks anything of you, a particular quality of time that doesn't feel like waiting, just like being somewhere you actually chose to be. I've been missing running in the mornings lately, or not missing running exactly, missing that particular hour before the neighborhood has decided what it is yet. I noticed that, standing there. Filed it somewhere.

The bowl above the stove, catching the light it always catches in summer.

The rest of the day happened. But that part, the window, the light, the bowl catching its stripe, that part I kept.