There’s dew on trash cans. Grass is soaked. Crickets sing in the coolness of a summer morn. It is still.

I sit on the back porch, drinking coffee and waiting for her to wake. A hundred miles away. Sleeping in a bed that was once ours. A cat lies in her arms. 

This is not a movie; not a song. It is life in action. We find ourselves afraid at times. Scared to say what we really feel. What we really want. No lines rehearsed. Straight from the soul. That’ll get you every time.

And so I wait. Listening to crickets this August dawn. Telling myself to call her. Just call her.

The soul knows what’s best.