In our town, the day is rare that begins in gray, on which the curtain rises with less than a fanfare of splendor; God’s glory shining on the ocean, the hills, and the town. So even those with head colds and mounting debt stand a moment on their front porches, on stairways leading to cluttered apartments, and beside the open doors of their little cars, and sigh. A moment’s ritual signifying that things could be worse.

At nine o’clock someone sweeps the tiled loggia of the public library, unlocks the door and lights the lights. The retired men drink coffee outside the donut shop. The veterinarian listens to a puppy’s heart and everything sounds fine.

Another man sleeps late, because he can, misses half the morning – God’s love upon the driveway and the grass. So when he finally gets the newspaper it’s warm, the dew soaked in and baked away. He steps from the shower thinking of apples, thinks of apples as he shaves, then eats one while his coffee drips.

I lied. All through June and most of July we live in a cloud that stretches for a thousand miles out to sea. We struggle up and leave our hearts, damp and sour, wadded on the bathroom floor. We eat our toast and tie our shoes and go. The chairs outside the donut shop lean against the tables, draining mist. All day we keep the headlights on, which seems to help. In February, fear the rain.

All this doesn’t bother our friend. He loves the color gray, with all its implications for consciousness, the muted contrast of flowers. And when the sun goes down and he sits in his room, there’s no dramatic sunset to be overlooked, then mourned. He listens carefully as the freeway echoes from the buildings all around, so he’s surrounded by the sighing of people.

Through the open window, he smells nothing that reminds him of his mother boiling blackeyed peas she spent the morning shelling as she watched him play. That must all be in my mind, he thinks. He closes the window, and goes to put his shoes away. But isn’t that me? My mind isn’t something separate, something I can set aside like shoes. My mind is me and peas are in my mind; therefore, I am blackeyed peas.

He holds his cup, moves slowly through the quiet house, notes that the carpet needs cleaning. Smudges of dirt on the hardwood floors. He hopes for an earthquake – just a little one – to stir things up. Because sometimes he’s so tired of the light, harsh in his eyes, and as the evening rolls in, pressing down on him, he dims the lights after dinner. He stands at the window, looking out at the nothing that the night has brought. That’s peace: the blank windows, the hum of good appliances, a cup of tea.

© 2006 by J. Kyle Kimberlin