Waking up to a strange bed
Usually I wake up in the morning and T is talking already, she wakes up with words gushing out of her mouth. I always marvel at her ability to find speech so soon after sleep. Similarly, at a certain point even before he wakes, T2 is talking up a storm about something that nobody knows – Da Da, Moo Moo. About this time, Loca jumps up in the bed and does a few downward dogs and Bam Bam might even stretch or not.
We throw open the shutters of the LaLa and look at the bayou – is it dark as a mirror or have petite white caps appeared from a gentle breeze – are there pelicans or seagulls this morning – is it a festival day or an ordinary day?
These are the stirrings of a new day in New Orleans.
Waking up in a strange bed at first gives me a start. Where am I? Oh right, okay. Then I sleepily open the curtains and see a different world, a different light, and I hear no sounds other than the stirrings of other people in other rooms coming to their senses in a strange bed.
There is a restlessness that only gypsies know – I inherited it from my father. Always a longing to go, and once you’re there, a longing to return to the familiar.
Always coming and going, and always too soon.