She wakes up, hits the stop button on her alarm. She stays still for a moment and stares at the ceiling trying to remember a fast fading dream. The last wisps of a vivid image vanish and she turns to her right and gets up. Her feet touch the floor and they are alive, instantly. The soles greet her as they talk about how they feel.
She potters to the kitchen and pours herself m a glass of water and gets coffee going. Soon, the aroma fills her space and she sniffs a heady dose of caffeine. It’s a ritual, coffee on the rocking chair with nothing but the indulgence of solitude. A few sips and it’s out on the terrace to test the winds. She doesn’t need the weatherman to tell her how the morning will be. The wind does that with its touch on her skin. Soon, it will be dawn and the birds will sing. Until then, it’s just her world.
Ablutions done, she sits down in quiet contemplation for a while. She emerges out of it and puts on her garb for the road, usually black on black, to melt into the dark. She stretches sleepy muscles, very gently, to wake them up and says hello to her long legs. Loose and limber, she checks her belt and stands by the door. A last glance at the clock and out of the door and into the morning.
I miss her running rituals…