On Becoming Human

The mornings here are yellow and a pale, pale blue. The white blueness wakes me long before I have need to rise. Rising rested is a thin, pale, quiet joy in itself.

The yellow is that of a grapefruit halved for breakfast. Somehow the bright tiled sections of citrus stay with the kitchen days after the last one is eaten.

The kitchen is of all the rooms the most habitable in the early hours. The sharp tang of grapefruit and sharp brilliance of yellow turns the ice blue squinting into the solemn surety of a joyous day.