Here Now

They say, yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery, and today is a gift, that's why we call it the present. Lately, I couldn't understand that more.

It's nearly 7am and I find myself seated alone at our small kitchen bistro table, with only the sounds around me of a ticking clock and now click-clacking keyboard strokes. My babies sleep, husband too. I see the street is wet from rain, although I never heard a drop. Birds chatter for their mother in the small nest outside the nearby window tucked inside somewhere safe.

I sip my espresso and remember the European lifestyle I was raised on, and the standing-only Italian bars I'd visited for a quick morning sip. I notice a streak of blue paint on the side of my coffee cup, remnants of young ones who'd needed to rinse a brush as they created small masterpieces weeks or months ago.

My hands type more slowly as the anti-nausea medications hold my energy back. I imagine I'm being slung backwards by a force that makes it only difficult now, but will catapult me harder forward than I've ever experienced before once it sets me free.

My Mooshi-atta jumps to my lap, purring, rubbing, begging for my attention. I hear a dog jump off the bed from upstairs. My day is about to begin. It's a gift.