I woke this morning to the soft murmur of thunder high overhead, and the answering sizzle of cold rain falling into the pool. My dogs were huddled against my back for warmth and comfort (they hate thunder, and I lower the heat at night).
In the gray light of a cloudy morning I can never judge the time, so I turned around, craning my neck to see the clock. 7:30. Two hours before my late alarm, ninety minutes before the optimistic one. I could have lazed about in bed longer, but no, I got up, I got dressed (or as dressed as I was willing to get, which, today, is ratty sweats and an ancient red t-shirt), made coffee and oatmeal, and then started writing.
An hour later, a paragraph away from the end of the article in question, my laptop went “pffft” and I lost the text. I rebooted, recovered, hated what I wrote, and then rewrote it.
I had a virtual meeting with the guy who pays me.
I chatted with my aunt.
And then, because it’s still cold, icky, and gray, I made clam chowder. Oh, it’s from a can, but it’s Progresso, not Campbells, and it’s so tasty.
I poured it into a lighthouse mug, and carried it back to my computer.
It was delicious, but I knew it would be.
Because it’s a clam chowder kind of day.