Deep peace.

It begins with birdsong that floats on ribbons of morning air though an open window.

The early light of April or October. Those in-between months when Louisiana stretches her arms into that fresh breath of spring or fall.

It’s fleeting. But we revel in the lagniappe of waking to 65° and clear, blue skies.

Fleeting. Fresh.

Like that moment that rushes back to me on the wings of a birdsong.

Mockingbird? Mocking me for my inability to hold tight to that deep peace that rested on my heart one morning in April of 1992?

I had less reasons then than now to be so deeply at peace. Barely scraping enough coins together. Renting to own. Pregnant with my second child. And summer approaching, which, for a university instructor, meant no paycheck for three months.

But I woke one April morning —boxes to be unpacked in some rooms, a dryer on the curb because I lost the top somewhere on I-10 from Austin to Baton Rouge —with a big uncertain life ahead and deep peace inside. We would hang our clothes out to dry for three years until we could buy a new dryer. But that morning in 1992, I stared at our bedroom ceiling, dappled in morning light, as I rubbed my belly, bulging with a baby who rested so still that I would poke her to make sure…

The peace of all-will-be-well comes back to me through open windows of April and October, dancing on birdsong and fresh air, as fleeting as the perfect seasons of Louisiana but as sure and healing as the morning sun.

©Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2024.