Three Blocks and a Round Trip

The morning had a whole plan. Run first, then coffee, then the community center errand I'd been putting off since Thursday. I was dressed, I had my bag, I was out the door at a reasonable hour. Made it to the bottom of the stairs before I had that feeling, the specific one, not the vague one, where your hand does an inventory of your bag without being asked and comes back with a report you don't like.

The keys were on the kitchen counter. Right there, beside the mug I hadn't finished. I know this because I went back up and looked at them. Three blocks, turned around, back up two flights, standing in my own kitchen staring at my keys like they'd done something to me. Gerald's vine was doing the thing where it catches the morning light and looks very peaceful about it. The collapsed bowl was on the shelf. The prints were still leaning. Everything exactly as I'd left it, including the thing I was supposed to take with me.

the keys were home the whole time

I stood there for a minute. Drank the last of the cold coffee. Picked up the keys. Started again.

The errand got done. The run didn't happen, I made a quiet executive decision somewhere on the second block that the morning had used up its momentum and the route could wait until tomorrow. I walked instead, which is how I ended up spending twenty minutes on the east-side block with the light coming in at that low September angle, not photographing anything in particular, just carrying the keys I'd gone back for. Some mornings are just that.

back inside. again. it's fine.