In the fresh morning air, just before what is considered a decent hour I had a visitor. A little white hen peered over my door frame and through my coffee steam. Gave me a good once over, looked me up and down, in my own house. The dogs were quiet, still sleepy, Lola on my lap and Julius spread out at my feet. They didn’t bat an eye. She was the colour of cold cream and just as cool, her stare unswerving and assessing. She moved from me, dismissive, to stare with fascination at first one dog and then the other, turning her head to the side to better capture them. Before today I would never have imagined that a hen cold be curious!
I could just hear her hennish thoughts – lucky animals, safely owned and fed, not having to scratch for a living. There was the wistfulness I have only ever seen in a married woman and mother looking into a single girl’s life – the freedom of one’s own thoughts before laundry and nappies and a husband takes over. In a hen. And then, as if to prove my thought true, in fluttered her Rooster, young and proud and a right pain in the ass, tormenting and squawking her out of our moment.
She fluttered off at full hen-speed with him pestering behind her tail. Following her with my sleepy eyes I caught a flash of white. A long anticipated one. A single, clean, pristine orchid bloom.
Smiling and grateful sat I, coffee in hand, writing about the Light as my morning glided on dressed flawlessly in white.
Last night I kissed you in my sleep
And whispered in your ear,
I crossed the ocean far and deep
On a butterfly of air.
I crept into your window
And slipped between your sheets,
I snuggled right into your curve
And joined our two heartbeats.
But just as my lips touched your face
A bird took me away!
Sun climbed into my backyard
And called me to my day.
What woke me three minutes before my alarm was the taste of mango in my mouth and the smell of star apple in the air. The senses were so overwhelmed that I stretched in bliss, hit the bed-head, and woke up smiling. Actually smiling. Three minutes before my alarm. Small miracle.
I was with a group of friends on a visit to Jamaica and we were being driven cross-country. I had six weeks off from work and had left the work blackberry at home so the little red dot wouldn’t drive me insane. We had driven from Kingston through St. Catherine, ever climbing, through Manchester’s mountains, and down the corkscrew of Spur Tree Hill into St. Elizabeth. In the mountains of St. Bess we stopped at a road-side fruit stand. None of this actually happened in the dream, but isn’t it strange how dreams come with their own memories and knowledge like a zip file?
In the dream my friends were negotiating with the language of Yorkshire and of Kent over bananas and sliced pineapples with an wide-eyed-with-awe country-man and tasting sugar-dense naseberries for the first time when a car pulled up. I was called away by name and turned to find an old friend from my high-school days. He was holding the biggest mango I had ever seen and looking very handsome. (Probably because of the mango.) He pulled off the road to speak to me and I remember lamenting to him that it wasn’t star apple season. He laughed and pointed up to the tree above my head and, as if commanded by his finger, ripening star apples appeared and filled the air with a heady syrup that hit the tongue through the nose.
My magical friend gave the vendor his mango, asked him to slice it in half. The mango had no seed! He then reached up to pick the nearest star apple. When my teeth sank into the mango I woke up.
This morning I love my life. Last night I had sushi with “the V” in it – did I tell you my best friend is a Nutter with a capital N? Then a lightning storm came and the lights went out. Right before I woke up this morning I dreamed I was in Jamaica. And now, coffee cup in hand, I am fresh back from the twice-daily walk with Lola and Julius, a constant and regularly scheduled reminder that my mess really doesn’t stink – at least not like theirs. What more could a girl need?