(Original Version - Summer 2016)
I could not remember a greater
feeling of peace upon waking the following morning in a complete state of the
deepest relaxation I had known in a lifetime. The sheets that swaddled me felt
of the finest silk, or maybe satin. I don’t know a thing about thread counts.
Actually, I know nothing beyond the generic feel of hotel sheets. And speaking
of hotel, the aroma of coffee that permeated the air came not from the unit in
the bathroom – which is pretty disgusting, yet widely accepted and something I
will never understand – but from the finest urn; its beans reserved only for
royalty or the very wealthy. I could see this with my eyes still closed and
hear the gentle ruffling of the curtains swaying to the music of the tropical
breeze that moved them.
(Revised - Feb. 2019)
I awoke the following morning in the arms of
a lover named tranquility. Now, I’m not one of these, coffee, I need coffee people, but one would think that waking up in
my condition that coffee would be a must. The problem was, I didn’t have a condition. I did want coffee
though. The aroma wafting through the room was overwhelming. This was no
single-user coffeemaker in the bathroom mixed with the eau de toilette fragrance of assorted feminine hygiene and hair
care products scent. And don’t get me started on the java in the lav thing.
There’s nothing distinct about the way hotel
packet coffee smells during the drip cycle either. It’s pretty weak and you
know it’s going to be disappointing, like listening to a symphony through tinny
speakers. What resulted in olfactory overload was totally the opposite, it’s
pungency as commanding as one of those ridiculous sub-woofer’s in the back of
the car that pulls up alongside you at the traffic light pounding out bass hard
enough to make your brain shake. This was powerful stuff. I sighed contentedly.
Swaddled beneath a gently billowing sheet made of the finest silk (I mean it
felt that way, but I don’t know a thing about thread counts), I luxuriated in
the softest kisses of white dandelion fuzz sprinkling my body every time the breeze
moved the fabric over me. I thought of myself as a child blowing the fragile
wisps upon the winds and then as an adult wallowing in the feel of…well yeah,
dead flora. The curtains ruffled softly, whispering my name, “Lacey, Lacey,”
urging me gently into a new day. I eased peacefully into wakefulness sans
awareness, slowly, ever so lightly opening my eyes with the finesse of someone
trying to raise a tricky window shade without waking the baby. Beyond the
footboard atop the posh walnut bureau sat a coffee urn that shined brightly. I
have something similar at home, a hand me down from a generation or two ago. It
shines too, but the one before me glistened with the precocious pride of a
well-heeled BMW gliding out of the car wash while my equally burnished Toyota
lags shamefully behind. The curtains called again, this time singing dreamily,
“L-a-a-a-c-e-e-y-y, L-a-a-a-c-e-e-y-y.”
Playfully, I hummed along, my mind still
adrift on a lingering dream where I languished on the French Riviera.
A
rogue wind slapped the drape this time.
“L-A-C-E-Y!”
No alarm clock sleep button, nine-minute
reprieve. This was mother angry and urgent at the bottom of the stairs
demanding I get up now or I’ll miss the school bus.
TJM - Mar. 2019
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