The air was not clear and bright, as in winter, everything illuminated and known, but dense and obscured, the air a semi-solid volume of dew, malleable as the day. These mornings are for waiting. While my others snooze lazily, emancipated from the morning routine of the school year, I wet my bare feet in misty clover, watching for briar, waiting. While my others sleep, I do not plan, I do not hope. I wade through the possibility hanging in the enveloping wetness, breathing in what could be and exhaling what was. I sit on the step of their doors, one by one, knowing my presence will draw them out; they must feel me waiting. I wait by the fence of the pool, hands clutching peeling paint on the criss-crossed metal, a wall we've scaled so many times. I let my fingers trace a meaningless path over the the rusted brick, walls we've sat against so many times, drinking soda and crushing ants. Up the hill, I wait looking down the slope we roll over, roll over, roll over, roll over, over, over.
Over.
Over.
Every morning I wake with the birds and wait. Their songs part the air and make paths for us to follow.
- Chicago
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