Fallen angel.

It began as a not-torqued brain day. I knew it as I lay on the pull-out couch, even before I opened my eyes.

Sign #1: The window in my in-laws’ basement does not have light-blocking curtains, but the brightness did not anger me.

It was quiet. Only the soft hum and whistle of my husband B, nuzzled on my shoulder and still asleep, and occasional clicks of the dog’s nails on the kitchen floor above. No muffled drone of morning traffic or highway construction or news choppers I usually hear outside the noise-reducing, double-paned windows in my own bedroom.

There was no wake-up alarm. No rush.

I lay in bed and thought.

Sign #2: I think in lists. That morning, it was not an inventory of ugh to-dos, but of surprising yays:

  • I didn’t feel hung over by the extra glass of wine I’d allowed myself the night before.
  • I’d fallen to sleep immediately: just spooned against B’s back and off I’d gone.
  • I’d slept, uninterrupted by my regular dream of being hit by the garbage truck as I shield a brown-haired little boy at the intersection of Erie and Eighth Streets.

I rose from the mattress easily, my legs not stiff and reluctant, and my feet didn’t crack as I climbed the basement steps.

Sign #3: My hate quotient was low. The voices in my in-laws’ kitchen did not trigger hate that there would be other people breathing my air. I smelled the coffee and muffins (blueberry!) before I entered the kitchen. Aunt Judy glowed and smiled.

“Good morning, angel.”

Imagine: Me. Angel. A spiritual being superior to humans in goodness. Perhaps not impossible. Trigger-free morning = angelic Nancy.

The miracles continued.

B and I went for a morning run: first through the in-progress Osprey Landing development so I could be nosy and note the available Port-o-Potties for en-route emergencies. We continued to North Westgate Road, my legs springier on the dirt road than on the concrete in our urban ‘hood. We ran in synch, two bodies, one steady pace, one seamless breath pattern. We completed the four miles non-stop. Victorious.

We stretched in the sun in the back yard. The dog looped around us, occasionally nosed my hand for a scratch behind the ear. The coffee in the kitchen was still lawsuit hot and there was lactose-free milk in the fridge. The steam from the shower revived my curls into almost Cyrille Aimee-like body and bounce. I looked at the image in the bathroom mirror and smiled. Miraculous.

I was soaring high and my next morning stop was aimed at heaven: my long-anticipated trip to Our Lady of the Cape Thrift Shop, reliable for its well-curated selection and discount days. I sought small-sized jeans with short inseams. What I found was that though I was angelic that morning, I am no angel.

( … work in progress … )

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