11454297503_e27946e4ff_h.jpgDSCN1194.jpgYesterday I woke early. I slipped from bed before the sun had slipped over the horizon. I sipped warm coffee and dabbled in my notebook, playing with a few ideas and some poems. I examined a moth that had visited over night and still rested beneath the exterior light. In the garden the hummingbirds darted and hovered and dipped their needle beaks into phlox blossoms and bee balm.

Yesterday I slipped away for an early morning walk on the beach. I left a meandering trail of footprints along the shore. The waves swished and the gulls called. The piping plovers and sand pipers rushed back and forth, playing tag with the surf. I soaked in the serenity of stretches of sand, sky and water. No one else was in sight. My fingers traced water-etched grains of drift wood and I followed a butterfly as it danced and fluttered across the sloping sand.


Yesterday I sat on the back porch and felt the sun warm on my legs. The chickens clucked contentedly and strutted by to see if I had anything to offer. My cat dozed under the lawn chair. I read my book until my daughter and two of her friends joined me. We talked of their lives as they head out to their first year out of college–Two of them, my daughter included, heading to Philadelphia, one to Arizona. My husband joined us. We sat on the porch and talked about nothing important, nothing newsworthy.

DSCN1162Yesterday I painted with my husband. We worked on the front of the house, brushing rich strokes of color over old, worn paint. Companionable and quiet. Productive.

Yesterday I talked on the phone with two of my sisters, catching up. We chitchatted about our children, tag sales, jobs, books, exercise, our Dad.  We shared. We connected.

Yesterday I also talked with my son. He called on his way home from work and we chatted leisurely about this and that–his girlfriend, his summer, his job and when we would see each other next. He tried to educate me about preseason football. I encouraged him to get new tires and to make an appointment to have his teeth cleaned.

Yesterday I played cards with my daughters. “One more game,” we kept saying. We laughed at our competitive natures and commiserated at the difficulties of the game. They kept up a running repartie, peppered with laughing comments and quotes to each other–quirky inside jokes or references to shows/movies they’d watched together. I basked in the moment and in their friendship, which once wasn’t and now so clearly is.

Yesterday I slipped into bed next to my husband. My book was waiting. I fell into its pages and then, shortly afterward, drifted away into sleep.

I don’t know what today will bring, but I’m so grateful for yesterday.


14 thoughts on “Yesterday…

  1. You captured the beauty of yesterday so wonderfully here! Thank you for sharing!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. maryannreilly says:

    All those sibilant sounds in the language you selected make me want to stay awhile and bask in the celebration. Your word choice, focus, and repetition make for a soothing prose-poem.

    I also appreciate the idea of celebrating what is: A recall of love.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. What a beautiful living-filled yesterday. Wishing you a joyous today! So much to savor, notice, and treasure.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Relationships! You live a rich life. You’ve made it a rich life. Well-earned.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. jcareyreads says:

    What beautiful images- created with words and photos. I loved your ending.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Amy Warntz says:

    I adore the structure of your piece, Molly. Yesterday was perfect! I even had the opportunity to live vicariously through your day, your nothing special yet everything special day.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. margaretsmn says:

    What a beautiful yesterday you had! Wishing you many more.

    Liked by 1 person

    • mbhmaine says:

      Thanks, Margaret. It was a beautiful day brimming with simple pleasures. I’m thankful for the day and for the moment of awareness that helped me to recognize how extraordinary and valuable the ordinary can be.

      Liked by 1 person

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