Aint I A Writer?: Sharing the Sunday morning love

Aint I A Writer?: Sharing the Sunday morning love

Lookin' Up

I scrape the bar code of my wine bottle over the laser-robotically push all the right buttons. Going home. American Idol is on tonight. Have bills to pay in the morning. Oh what a day…Can’t wait for baggy fleece jammies and an old tee shirt . Can’t wait to release my boobs from bra bondage. Oh what a day…

I approach the glass doors of the store. Have to pause impatiently for it to register my presence and let me out of here. The air is cold and it smells sort of sweet-like snow on the way. Are New Englanders the only ones who can lay claim to the ability to smell snow? Yeah…I think so.

I walk toward my car at the far corner of the parking lot-wish I had rethought my hair-brained plan to park far away from the door. Sure. Go on. Torture yourself at the end of a long day with that extra walking for your health. Sadistic, really. I walk across the tar lot noticing the way the grease spots reflect the fluorescent lights.

But my eyes are pulled upward. The sky is velveteen black with diamond studs-the stars so clear-so cold-so spiky with intense light. I am suddenly under that soft cloak of blackness-looking at the world from the top down. I feel like one of those old time photographers- who scurry under cover-just before there is a pop and a flash- and an image is magically burned onto the glass plate.

Through that little eye, I see my world again. It reaches out to me, all soft and supple. Wanting to be touched.