Morning Melodies

Every morning it was the same routine. No variations. No changes. Like clock work. He'd wake up early, while the stars were still alive in the sky, twinkling the last few times before tucking themselves away below the horizon. As time had passed, each morning had gotten a little trickier. His joints weren't what they once were. They battled him. Argued with him to stay in bed. Just ten more minutes. Sometimes he'd have to sit on the corner of the mattress and massage them awake - coax them to catch up to his muscles. Carry him downstairs so his day could really begin.

He always had it timed perfectly. As he walked into the kitchen the grinder would click on and begin to whirl. Throwing that freshly ground coffee aroma into the air. Flooding his nose. Teasing his body with  the caffeine it would soon be supplied. He swore just the smell alone woke him up - put an extra perk into his step. It was an experience. Just the right amount of sugar, usually a spoonful, following by a splash of milk - enough to turn the coffee a creamy mahogany. Every time it touched his lips it was a salvation, bringing a smile to his face. He could feel it seeping into his pours as it ran down his throat. Waking his core. Releasing his spirit. By the time he was done savoring each and every last drop, the sky would be just be beginning to lighten - the sign that he needed to be on his way. Placing his cup in the sink, he'd make his was to the back door, where he'd pick up the case on his way out.

Aside from the coffee - the walk was his favorite part of the morning. Strolling amongst the tall grass, feeling it play and pull against his pants - the fat dew drops soaking into the fabric, cool against his skin. It was the time he could just let his mind wander. Think about the past, the present, and the future. Nothing specific - just float out in front of him as he made his way up to the ridge. It was his private time. To contemplate.

When he finally made it to the top, he'd always find the chair waiting for him, just where he left it the day before. Sitting down, he'd lean forward and crack his back, taking pleasure in the release. Pulling the case up to his lap, he'd open it and gaze inside at its contents - lost for just a moment at the beauty. Laying there, in all its glory was his grandfather's mandolin. Passed down from generation to generation. The wood was still a rich color, but there were a few patches worn from years of play. Bringing it to his ear, he'd tune it ever so slightly, listening to the string as they sang out into the still morning air. When it was ready he'd wait. Until the sun had begun to crest over the horizon. Then he'd begin playing - letting the melody carry out into the valley. Over the hills, through the trees and pastures - echoing out into the countryside. Welcoming the new day with a tune.

It was his favorite show to play.