Spring Mornings

I groggily pull open the sliding glass door that has slowly taken more and more effort to open over the years with an exaggerated heave and walk into the unknown. I am immediately hit with a cool morning breeze as I stand in the shade of my house. The chilly mornings of mid-spring send a shiver down my spine. I venture further, stepping out of the shadow into the bright, rising sun. The golden rays shine down, breaking through the trees and their emerging foliage, creating long shadows that spread across the slightly over grown grass of my south facing back yard. I can feel the warmth coming from the east pierce through my sweatshirt, warming just the left side of my body. I turn towards the sun, absorbing all the warmth I can. I feel awake as though a god-like presence has descended upon me and jolted me out of my dazed state of perpetual indoors. Reaching my hands far above my head and closing my eyes, I remember the countless hours and the fantastic memories made in that spot. Turning to look past the old, grey wood of my porch, my eyes come across the river birch that sits within a patch of mulch that is encircled by various colors of rocks that were gathered from the creek adjacent to my house. I think back to the day that my parents planted that tree. On that day my older brother and I named it “onion tree” because of its faded orange and yellow peeling bark. Drawing my focus back, my eyes settle on the rock that has sat on the corner of my porch for at least ten years. Stony Hoyer’s figure, named by my dad, depicts the rough outline of a dog. I remember the day my dad lugged that large rock uphill for about half a mile just to set it in that spot. Back then, it seemed like a fruitless task that required an excessive amount of effort, but now, as I look back on those times, those memories will forever be cemented into my mind because I have something physical to remind me.