The Morning People

My father and I were the early risers in my house growing up. He made cinnamon toast and cream of wheat; he drove me, in the dark, to the skating rink, where I practiced double lutzes and flips (and tried to control my scratch spins) before the first bell at Radnor High. We were known, in our family, as the morning people, and I thought nothing of that until I went to college and discovered that I was one of the few out at dawn. One of the few crouched beneath the lamp of a not-yet-winter day.

I married a late sleeper and gave birth to one. The mornings have always been my own. But here at Hilton Head I found my morning brethren, out on the beach, waiting for sun. It's a sweet salmon blue out there before the sun cracks the horizon. And then the sun is a fireball. It's a globe of pink fire that puts a fuzz down on the lens. It defies accuracy, and capture.

This morning, we morning people stood and watched the sun do its thing. Then we got to work beneath its glaring streak, being the regular people we have also taught ourselves to be.