Balcony Sitting in the Morning

“That potato vine has already grown,” I write in my black-bound journal. I have long desired a potato vine. This one has small, delicate, white flowers – someone told me at the nursery that there are different kinds of potato vines, some with lavender or purple flowers – but all I know is the white potato vine, having coveted my friend, Carol’s, potato vine for several years. Last time I was at Carol’s, I noted that her potato vine was gone, causing me distress and providing the impetus to finally plant one of my own.

“I have nothing to write.” My journal continues. “Sat here for ten min., journal in lap, pen in one hand, coffee cup in the other, staring at the potato vine, listening to the birds and the airport noise – but nothing to say, nothing to write."

"Though I’ve just recently taken up sitting on my balcony in the morning again, there’s nothing new about it (except the potato vine and the two hot-pink inpatiens planted in my old, cobalt blue pots). I’ve sat here sipping coffee, listening to the morning sounds of my neighborhood (CAW CAW CAW CAW cries out a passing crow) many times before. The train horn blares in the distance and I can hear the grumbling, rumbling of the train coming down the tracks, an express or a freight (for it is not stopping). I hear too the footsteps of a passer-by in the street, his shoes making a soft click-clack, (really a thwick-thwack). He must be wearing slippers and is no doubt the old man from the house down the way out for his morning smoke. He is hacking and coughing a bit, and I can smell his cigarette, as its grey smoke drifts up in the soft morning air to where I sit, hidden from his view.

This balcony sitting brings me no new insights; no new knowledge comes my way as I sit here, listening, observing (a squirrel runs yet again across the power lines, from one clump of trees to another). My world is not changed by watching the thick, green leaves of the trees across the street slowly light up as the sun paints the tops of trees and homes and apartment buildings in a vibrant glow, leaving the street, the sidewalk, the front porches and doors in shadow – for now.”

I sip the last of my coffee and close my journal. Time to shower and get on with the day. I have papers to grade, classes to teach, errands to run. The car needs servicing and I keep forgetting to pick up my black blazer at the cleaners. I rise from my cozy bench to re-enter my apartment, but not before I catch one last glimpse of my potato vine, as it sways just a tiny bit, moved by a gentle, morning breeze. I step inside and shut the sliding glass door.