Sunrise Offering

Soft yellow fans out over the mountains, beginning far to the north. It kisses the tops of our trees and slides along the roof of our little red brick house.

The old cul-de-sac slumbers, early morning sprinklers hissing to a start and leaving tiny droplets on the rosebushes in everyone’s front gardens.

I, on the other hand, am already awake. (To my parents’ chagrin, I was born an eternal early bird.)

I’m curled in my bed with a slim first reader, squinting to read by the thin dawn light eking its way through the blinds

My dad says I’ll need glasses if I keep reading in the dark.

(In a couple years, he turns out to be right.)

The morning crawls to a start with the sounds of front doors creaking open and car doors slamming shut.

I dog-ear my book and slide it under my pillow, jumping out of bed and racing from my room. I skid around the corner just in time to see Dad opening the screen door.

Mindi, as usual, has beaten me to the farewell procession. She’s sniffing Dad’s legs, her thick brown tail drooping in dismay.

(He’s wearing slacks, not jeans. A sure sign that she won’t be able to go with him today.)

“I love you, daddy!”

“Love you, Jessie Bear.”

He kisses my fuzzy lion’s mane of brown hair and promises we’ll do something together after work.

Still, Mindi and I climb to the back of the couch to mourn as his car creeps out of the driveway and disappears down the street.

“It’s okay, Mindi,” I say. “He’ll be back.”

But what to do in the meantime?

I cast a glance at the long drapes, weighing my options.

After watching George of the Jungle, I’d bunched the drapes together and wrapped my arms and legs around them, swinging with reckless glee.

It had been great fun — but not worth the rare experience of getting in trouble.

Looking to the hallway, I hop off the couch and leap onto the curtains.

The rings scrape against the rod in a tell-tale “kshhh.”

After just one swing, I leap over the armrest and curl up beside Mindi again. My heart pounds with the unseen act of wild self-indulgence.

Fortunately, Mindi knows how to keep a secret.

(Except when we play hide and seek. Then she always shows everyone my secret spot.)

She rests her chin on my knee, looking up at me with warm golden eyes.

I spend more time with her than with people, many days. She’s my best friend and loyal companion. Though her loyalty defaults back to daddy when he’s home.

But I can’t blame her for that. Mine does, too.

After what feels like forever, Mom wakes up.

I pad into the kitchen to meet her, my bare feet sticky on the cool linoleum floor.

“Mommy,” I say. “Can I have a picnic on the back porch?”

“Sure,” she says.

Beaming, I run back to my room to retrieve my favorite blanket. It’s soft against my neck as I sling it over my shoulder and return to the narrow kitchen.

“Here,” Mom says, handing me a plate. “Have fun!”

“Can I have bread too?”

I make the same eyes as Mindi, which always works. She’s an expert.

Mom adds two spongy slices of white bread to the plate. I hold it with both hands while she opens the sliding door for me to duck outside.

The heat of the day hasn’t arrived yet, so the air smells like damp grass and cool dirt.

A tall tree in the backyard neighbor’s yard blocks most of the sunrise, but I lift my face to feel the warmth before setting up my picnic.

Mindi plops next to me on the cement, tail thumping. Her ears flop open like a bunny’s and her tongue lolls out in a sideways grin.

I smooth the blanket out and place the two small paper cups on it.

One holds water. The other, a handful of chocolate chips.

The chocolate chips are for me.

The water is for us to share.

The bread is for the birds.

I tear it into chunks and push it through the slats that make up our back porch lattice. The dark green plastic is stiff and crackles as I fit the bread in.

Popping the last bread chunk into my mouth, I sit criss-cross applesauce on the blanket and wait.

It doesn’t take long before the neighborhood sparrows and chickadees discover their own breakfast al fresco.

They cling to the lattice with tiny claws, pecking at the bread slices and chirping.

Mindi and I watch with rapt attention.

Then I pick a few chocolate chips from the cup. They melt in my mouth, sweet and smooth. Like a happy secret. Like a doggy smile, a goodbye kiss from my dad, a clear-sky sunrise on a perfect day.

I lean back next to Mindi and lazily eat the rest of the chocolate chips, sipping tap-cold water and offering her some in turns.

We fall asleep there, her tail resting on my leg and my hand covering one dainty white paw.

And in that moment, to me, everything is perfect.