Early Morning Glory

I leave my house around 7 AM every school day. I walk out my door and look towards the lake. I can't really see it, but I know it's there behind the other houses and trees. The sky is just starting to lighten and the sun is just starting to create hues of red and gold. They're murky colors mixed with the cold air to make them look like pink cotton balls.

I squeak my way through the snowcover I haven't shoveled and slip a bit on my garage floor.

I sit, hunched up in my cold car, and after three tries, the garage door opener (and closer) finally works.

I drive to work, mentally commenting on the other drivers, or, if it's a good mood day, singing along to my stereo. I always compare the gas prices from one station to the other four that I pass on my way.

I sometimes see the lady, holding a cigarette while she lets out her HUGE dog. I almost always see the woman walking to her bus stop, her location depending on how early or late I am to work.

I park in the lot next to all of the SUVs and trucks, trying to figure out which one belongs to which teacher. I notice whether or not my boss is there yet, which determines whether or not I can get into the office to pick up my mail.

I watch the parking lot pavement and notice where it's slippery and how the frost glistens in the light. It looks like diamonds on the ground. Free diamonds for everyone.

Movie of the Day: Working Girl.