It’s now that perfect window just before daylight savings time when the sun doesn’t rise until 7:30 a.m. and the mornings are cold and dark, yet cozy.
The silence is only broken by early commuters driving by the house and Michelle’s sleeping breath and occasional stirring.
The kettle I use to make coffee has progressively been leaking water in heavier drips. I keep a towel handy to sop up the puddle that pools on the counter top or the ground.
My nose runs now. The combination of the cold weather and the dry, hot dust from the heater (the hot dust that smells like mid-autumn mornings) makes my allergies flare. I try to keep quiet when I sneeze as I write down my thoughts in the dark while sipping the coffee I just made. I wouldn’t trade those hours for more sleep. I wouldn’t trade them for a kettle that doesn’t leak.
I write about the things people have taught me and recent experiences. I write about my aspirations, finances, how to improve my work ethic, how to live better, how to love better. And I write about how the hell I’m going to keep my motorcycle from leaking oil still. And yet that motorcycle preoccupies my thoughts more than most things. I ride it despite the troubles.
The things we cherish most leak a little. We get to know them intimately and soon become fully aware of their dysfunctions, like family. They could be close friends, memories, meaningful possessions and experiences.
They are the leaky kettle, the running nose in the cold mornings and the motorcycle.
I think when we truly know what we hold closest, we aren’t phased by the rough corners and the leaks. That’s how you know they are real. You’re not dreaming.