I walk out the door of my rusty cottage and on to the cobble steps that lie embracing the foundation ever so gently beneath it.

The orange rays of the sun are just peaking through the emerald evergreens that line the petite frame of my abode.

I stop and admire the scenery of warm colors soothing my brown eyes in every way.

I live for moments like this, when it’s just me, myself and the wind, to know what I am thinking.

As I walk between the wilting yellow and pink flowers lining the walk, I think how gracious I am to be here on this world, in this spot right now.

I hustle to the pale green mailbox. My breath is still visible for it is still mid march, and a bit brisk in the early morning.

I put down the red indication flag and pull out a small package stuffed into opening of the mailboxes’ mouth.

Wrapped in brown paper and authentic twine, I grasp it with care.

I continue on walking back up to the place I call my home, with floating steps and a conscious mind.

I miss that morning.

This story has no comments.