Fuzzy dim images of certificates and photos are reflected upon the window, the inky night-time beyond mutes the vibrancy of these yellow walls.
They aren’t really yellow. To counteract the greenish light that bounces in from woods behind my home, I painted them a yellow-orange. OK, fine, I didn’t paint them but I picked out the color and I paid the guy who did paint them. It’s the same thing, really.
Anyway, the orange cancels out the green and the effect is a very warm yellow.
Had I mixed orange with green in oil paints, it would have made a color in the realm of taupe, gray or something hideous.
And this is the stuff that wanders through my mind before sunrise on a Saturday in Anchorage, Alaska. The dog is sleeping peacefully in the living room below my home office left. He breathes softly. When he licks his lips, the sound is slick and lazy. He adjusts his position, the rug crunching beneath him.
Whine of tires on a highway two miles from my home is barely audible. Speaking of which, have you ever noticed how that sound sinks into the ambience of the city-dwelling life? You only notice it in its absence . I moved out of Anchorage, briefly, in the early 80’s to a town elsewhere in Alaska and the quiet made me insane. I divorced that guy and moved back.
Now I live next to the airport, gratefully single. Having grown up on air force bases, the roar of jets overhead is like hearing my own heartbeat. It’s reassuring. It’s when the planes quit flying, one worries.
After 9/11, the quiet hanging over Anchorage was heavy, ominous. Everyone in the country, in the world, was waiting for what would happen next.
And neighbors just let their little designer mutt out. He barks, rending the peace. I wonder how long he will live.
To all those veterans among us and who have gone before, we thank you for your service.