I Move Forward at Noon. SEPTEMBER 16, 2024

8am, I’m up thinking about everything worth being looked at for a second time. I observe the kitchen, taking in the magic it only shows in the morning. There’s no sound and it feels like God has answered all my prayers. Somehow, whatever I’m normally bothered by always seems smaller at this time. Nothing can ruin 8am for me. I step outside and pretend to photosynthesize. I think about how I momentarily stopped putting on sunscreen when I would do this. I once told my best friend about someone I couldn’t help but look at twice, “you know what they’re like? Like when you close your eyes and tilt your head up to the sun. The purest form of warmth.” Closed eyes and unprotected skin, there’s nothing, not even sunscreen, in between me and them. At noon I tell myself, ”luckily the sun feels better when I know I’ve protected my face.” I lied. I’d stop putting on sunscreen any day if it felt like I had the choice. But I’ll only admit that in the morning, when it seems smaller and reminiscing doesn’t feel like a disservice to myself.