It’s a crisp morning, the kind that is cold enough to graze a windshield with frost. But not so cold as to see your breath.
I pull into the driveway of the church where I work, my mittens resting on the steering wheel. The neighboring hillside of vines is on fire with colors. The textured mix of red, yellow and orange is almost unnatural. The surrounding hills breathe tufts of clouds. Beads of dew gather in clusters.
For a moment I forget about the list of worries that has been cycling in my mind and breathe in the morning.
It feels like a promise.
Somehow, that scene gets lost in the obligations of the day. The phone calls and the stresses. The juggling of tasks. The minor irritations of everyday life.
The dew evaporates and the clouds clear. This withdrawal of moisture gives the day its worry lines.
At 5 p.m., I let the heavy door of my office fall closed behind me. The weight in my chest pins me down. Fatigue pulls heavily at my eyelids.
But scene that stretches before me is too dramatic to view with eyes half closed. The sun is resting on the horizon. The sky is painted in broad strokes of pastels. Pink ribbons of light curl up in the clouds. I stand and stare at the dramatic piece of art that has bookended my day.
And it feels like a promise.