Daybreak

 The grayness of first light of day greeted her eyes as she peered through

sleep swollen eyelids.  She lay still for a moment, pulling her mind to the

awareness of a new day.  She flexed her toes, wiggled her legs, slight

movements, but necessary to insure mobility when her feet did touch the

floor.  The motions continued up through hips, back, shoulders, —

undulating, gyrating, squirmming.  Actually not much movement, but

enough to loosen those reluctant muscles.

If anyone could see her, they’d think her crazy, just as she did when as a

very young girl visiting her chum, she saw her friend’s grandfather.  He was

sick abed and, as she walked by his door, she saw him hitting the back of his

neck with the side of his hand.  That had been her thought then, “He’s

crazy.”  Now, in the wisdom of maturity, she knew that stimulating the

blood flow could lessen pain.

She did a little cloud hopping as she loosened muscles, back to the hills

of her youth.  The legs that were moving under the covers were once more

scampering over hillsides bursting with springtime.  Ferns were shooting

through their blanket of last year’s leaves.  Briers, some folks called wild

asparagus (they ate them), were full of tender new tips.  Some oak trees had

a rosy glow to them, while others were just refreshingly green.  Other trees

had blossoms, little wormy looking things, that hung down for a couple of

inches.  She couldn’t even remember their name.  But that didn’t matter,

‘cause she had to rouse herself, back to reality, enough to face the drabness

of a cloudy day, of spring rains, chilling, but necessary to nourish springtime

growth.  Out her window she could see yellow forsythia bushes, tiny green

leaves on trees, and the red stems of dogwoods, promises of things to come.