Kate has had me up a lot since the wee hours, pacing, panting, snuffling at the door, needing to go out, restless. I laid her down, rubbed her head and ears, scratched her belly, massaged her paws. I told her what a good, devoted dog she’s been, and that I’ll be okay without her. A part of me wishes she would die quietly in her sleep. I guess everyone wishes that. Death is rarely so accommodating.
I tried to go back to bed, but now I’m restless too. So I got up, drawn by the early light of pre-dawn, a gentle wash of waves, cool air. A lobster boat, running lights on, chugged its noisy way out to sea for a day’s work. You can’t see it in the photo, but a parade of twinkling headlights shone from the shoulder of Cadillac Mountain across the way, tourists winding up the access road to catch the first U.S.A. glimpse of the rising sun.
I appreciate this quiet before the world fully wakens, a good time to be with my swirling thoughts.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 345: 152 words, TOTAL = 56,870; 3,130 remaining
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Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.