It’s 4:43am on a Tuesday morning. I’m late. The alarm on my phone is set to go off at 4:45 but I rarely need it. My body seems to know when to wake up. On most days that’s around 4:00 or shortly thereafter. Not today though. I fumble a little too quickly for the phone to shut off the alarm before it can go off, knock it on the floor, and glance at my wife. Fast asleep. Phew. I grab the ratty Boston Bruins t-shirt that I wore the night before, walk zombie-like up the stairs to the attic office, throw a cup (dark roast) into the Keurig, and then back down the stairs, and even further, to my favorite writing chair. My favorite chair used to be in the office but it fell apart one sad day so I took a sledge hammer to it and tossed the pieces out and into the yard below before carting it off to the dump. Now that I think of it I should have used it for firewood and toasted it one dark, summer night at the fire pit. Oh well, too late now. Why such a cruel end to a beloved chair? Simply because I had no idea how I was going to lug it down three flights of stairs. It was a beast. Wide wooden arms (perfect for a laptop and coffee) and faux leather comfort. I’m sure it would understand. The chair I replaced it with doesn’t compare so I’ve christened one of the downstairs leather chairs as my new writing chair. It is there I sit and write as the sun creeps up and peeks over the tall oak trees in the backyard to see if I’m awake. Not this morning though. It’s cloudy. It’s going to rain. Before I fire up the laptop to write the next chapter of my new book I look out the window on my right to see if I missed Sheila. Sheila is a skunk. A very white skunk who slips out of the woods around this time to root around the fire pit for whatever it is she roots around for. There’s no sign of her. She may have overslept too.
A little over an hour later I close the lid of the laptop. My wife is in the shower now. She’s getting ready for work. I guess it’s about time I do the same.
Someday I won’t have to leave this writing chair. Maybe after I’ve retired but hopefully before then. As is my favorite writing chair I’m sure Sheila will be long gone. But perhaps I will see her grandchildren out there, rooting around for whatever it is she taught them to root around for.