Only in the early morning hours,
long before you are awake,
do I silently sneak from bed and
tip — toe — to
the kitchen where I put on a pot of coffee and feed the cat.
I lace up my hiking boots hidden in the front room closet.
I open and shut the front door slowly, as if my life depends on it.
I walk to the woods beyond the pasture and
the prairie rises up to my hips and the humidity and the
dew dampen my jeans until they stick
as if I am wading through a grassy kind of water.
I find that clearing that you will never know about
because you will never venture this way
and kneel down in the diagonal glint of light where
the grackles forage.
I extend my arms outward and look to the sky and
say “someone is pulling the strings here”
and ask for the right string to be pulled or for the next string to be a sign.
It’s quite bizarre really, considering we are hardly religious.
Then I pull myself up, brush the dirt from my knees
and head back homeward
where you still lie sleeping, enduring
nightmares of no work and bills unpaid.
I enter the house, shed my wet jeans and reach again for the pajama pants.
I slide into bed, circle my arms around your waist and squeeze until you wake.
Then while you are dressing, I walk to the kitchen, no longer tiptoeing,
and retrieve a cup of coffee
and every time you wonder
how I made it so fast.
Lisa Bubert writes from Denton, TX. She has journeyed through phone book editing, freelance copywriting, scriptwriting for story times, puppet shows, and other miscellaneous toddler entertainment. Currently, she is writing short stories about grandmothers, and is obsessed with ages.