My Spot

At certain times of day, the rush hours of morning and evening, our street is busy with foot and car traffic. I'm familiar with the regulars: the joggers, the dog-walkers, the stroller pushers. The drivers who mistake the cross walk for a stop sign and the drivers who hit their brakes behind them, pounding the horn. That one hummingbird who comes to the jasmine by the front door. The cyclists and the skateboarders and the older couple headed to the park to practice qi gong in the grass. I count on them to populate my view of sunrises and then again when the sun's going down. I'm seeing all of them, which means that at least some of them see me as a regular too.

When the light is right, I see a reflection of myself, what they see. The lady in the window at 6am, face lit up by the glow of the computer screen. Mid-morning and there I am, chin in hand, staring out the window, holding a cup of coffee, lost in thought. And then, there I am sitting under a chandelier in my pajamas. I'm that lady trying to get my dog to stop barking at the window by offering him a cookie. Don't I know that's the worst way to train a dog? Then I am joined at the table by my son, by my husband. There I am pacing the kitchen talking into my cell phone. Evening comes and then all that is seen is the profile of me, reaching into the refrigerator or facing the stove. Then I'm at the table, my spot welcomes me back. Are those still pajamas? Is that the same cup of coffee?

Annie Dillard, famously said, "How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." I spend much of my morning and evening life in this chair, at this table, writing, and thinking, and watching.