Morning

Slowly grey dawn creeps over the sleeping city. Out of the misty early morning stillness emerge the trees outside my window. High in their branches, perched near the ferns that make their homes on the tree limbs, birds begin to chirp their cheerful greeting to the dawn. I wake in the dark stillness of my apartment. Nature’s alarm clock alerts me that it is time to rise and join the world for another day.

Slowly, I stir under the covers. The familiar pang, the pang of loneliness, hits my chest. The pang that reminds me every day that Brian is far away, as are my mountains, family, and home. It’s the sullen ache that reminds me I left everything I hold dearest thousands of miles away.

Resolutely, I get up, determined to make the most out of the day. I rub the sleep from my eyes and wander to the kitchen, where I prepare my solitary breakfast of toast, yogurt, and fresh pineapple. The tangy-sweet bite of yellow pineapple stirs me into greater awareness of place. It awakens me to the sound of trucks rumbling over potholes in the street to reach the tin-fronted construction site half a block down the road. The glass rattles in the windows and car alarms shriek their warning as the trucks jolt everything and everyone out of their early morning stupor.

I dress and pull on my tennis shoes before unlocking the door and escaping into the early morning sunlight. It is a rare morning, where the perpetual smog has lifted and reveals stunning views of the nearby volcanoes. I often forget these volcanoes exist as only when I leave by 6:30 in the morning are their smooth, conical shapes exposed.

Quickly, I make my way to the corner, avoiding the mud from the construction site, and minding my steps as I walk like a trapeze walker over uneven cement and unexpected holes in the sidewalk. One wrong move would result in a sprained or broken ankle. As I walk, I greet the early morning joggers; dog walkers; and workers who rush to their posts as maids, construction workers, or gardeners.

It rained last night, puddles still pooling on the stairs of the crosswalk. Quickly, I hurry up the steel steps, listening to it ping pang as it flexes under my feet. I check for people before I cross the cement walk and descend the other side towards, Paiz, the grocery store. At the foot of the steps, a woman already has her small coffee stand started. Baskets heaping with rolls, breads, and pastries along with two steaming thermos filled with sweetened coffee await the sweatshirt-clad workers. They clutch the warm drink in their hands and munch greedily at their rolls, check their wrist watches for the time, and wait anxiously for the señora to unroll her fistful of Quetzales and make their change.

My feet beat the familiar path up the street to the gym. I walk by stores selling Korean-owned clothing made in local maquilas. They still have protective grates across the glass display window; the owners have not yet arrived. Up the street I march until I arrive at McDonalds and McCafe, where people are alternately buying their McSandwiches or their freshly made lattes. Across the street, the flower vender has already set up his array of exotic blooms. Birds of paradise, roses, and tropical flowers grace his white buckets, enticing passersby to purchase the flowers for a loved one.

I enter the secure parking lot of the gym and stop briefly to greet the familiar guard. As he casts me his usual morning greeting, my eyes are drawn to his two front teeth, which have been surrounded in gold to keep them from further rotting. As I hustle inside for my morning work out, I know when I leave this quiet, early morning movement will be replaced with the chaos and rush of people hustling to work, to shop, to classes. I let that thought pass me by. The morning was so beautiful, it’s better to cherish it than dwell on the city bustle. With one last wave to the guard, I walk inside to prepare myself for the rest of the day.