Hawaii is three hours behind California. I’ve been waking up at five every single morning. About forty five minutes before the kids. My body wants to coast back into a warm sleep. But my restless mind fights it, my eyes springing back open. Maybe it’s the quietness of being alone. Something about me is desperate to enjoy some solitude while awake - even if my brain and nerves and fingers are jittery from nights and years of broken sleep. I just want to sit on this balcony. This balcony that's attached to our room in this sprawling and artificial-feeling timeshare hotel that’s full of intergenerational, white middle-American families. I want to sit out here while everything is almost still, while the sky is black and purple and blue, and I want to savor this cup of hotel room coffee that I brewed in the dark. I want to soak in thick, sticky Hawaiian air and salty sea breezes and the fizzy hum of the ocean pulling itself back and forth, and the steady, flowing sound of a manmade waterfall that is making itself known.
I could sit on this balcony for the entire trip, seven days straight. Not writing, not even listening to one of my niche interest podcasts that drown out the squeaky spiral of worries that are on my mind. But I could sit on this balcony alone, in a crisp cotton nightgown, one bottomless cup of coffee, in stillness, and quiet, with an unfocused focus. While my two tiny daughters pitter patter their way from bathing suits and tv and snacks and take a cozy seat on my lap, and then pitter patter back inside.