By Sue Trollip
I’ve been working the morning shift this week. My alarm jingles with the sounds of a ‘morning flower’ at 04h15. And, mug of coffee in hand, I step out of the front door at 04h45. The morning is pitch black as street lights are not big in suburbia.
On day one I marveled at how I’d changed, how I was almost unafraid of the dark as I squinted into the inky morning looking out for the looming figure of a bear. I pooped my car alarm and peered into the back seat just in case there was a lurker. I told myself not to be an idiot, a wimp or a ninny.
I straightened my shoulders and as my hand touched the door handle a train tooted in the distance and I leapt into the car like an undignified chicken, my heart beating wildly in my throat. I tried to laugh while glancing in the rear view mirror. It took a minute before I shook my head, took a deep breath and turned the key. That’s when the gunshot ejected from the CD, it’s the very last bar of Miranda Lambert’s song about a crazy ex-girlfriend.
I started the car, grateful that I did not have to change gears, and with my lights on bright I pulled out of the driveway.
About a mile down the road I happened upon three buck staring into the night and I started to breathe again.
So yes, I’m calm most of the time in my cool new world, but somewhere beneath that serene facade still lurks a jumpy African nincompoop.