She can hear the sound of the water from the porch; if she leaves the back door open the sound fills the kitchen. She stirs the oatmeal with her back to the door, teasing herself. The blue bowl today, she thinks. She pours a cup of coffee, spoons up the oatmeal, adds sugar to both. She loads up the teak tray with her breakfast, a book, pencil and pad and carries it all out to the porch.
It’s not close enough. She bypasses the patio table and crosses the back yard down the slope to the river’s edge. She sets the tray down on the old log, picks up her coffee. Still not close enough.
Two feet, five feet, ah. She steps from the bank into the water and feels the river whispering over her toes. Here, right here.
She sits on the flat rock her kids used to jump off of, her feet in the river listening, while her oatmeal gets cold.