Breakfast

Making breakfast  for Chase this morning, the vision began…or maybe it simply emerged after resting in developer all these years in the photo lab of my mind.  I was cutting the crusts off the thick nutty bread when I imagined the house:  white with New England blue and green accents.  A big country french table in the kitchen.

I was folding the cream of coconut into the eggs and milk and vanilla thinking of the routine:  rising early, making breakfast for my guests, having lots of copper cookie cutters so that I could adorn their pancakes with seasonal powdered sugar designs.  I would have NPR-ish music in the background, unobtrusive, likeable, not well-known musical art.  Those who woke early would drink the best coffee and watch me cook or visit.  The ever-changing guests would linger over breakfast, and leave by noon ..that I might nap and read and walk the beach and shop for fresh ingredients for tomorrow’s daily bread.

I was dipping the bread into the egg mixture when I saw the rooms:  3 maybe…no more than 4…with my suite on the far end accessible through a secret passageway;  french doors leading the way to the gathering center of the kitchen;  cozy cushions around the hearth.    Monty-cat would be napping in a window seat;  memorable reading would be stacked here and there for those who preferred the stimulation of words to the view of the water.

I was carefully arranging the toasted coconut french toast on plates when I considered the sign, by the front door, welcoming people in with the verse that has guided me this far by faith:  Come to me all who are weary…

And as I placed the apple bacon on the plates I imagined myself on the big porch, waving goodbye to my guests:  coral toenails, ankle bracelet, multi-colored skirt kissing my calves and near the door, the  hand-painted driftwood plaque naming my sanctuary:

Marinawells