“You’d Hate Me in the Morning”

The D’Angelo family at rest—four souls by the river, watching the town wake.

Some mornings, the words won’t come until your feet have done the talking. You walk—not to escape, but to listen. To the sidewalk. To the river. To the ache in your own shoes. Feedback? Doesn’t matter. You write what you need to write, after the miles have softened your edges. Why not.

Peekskill yawns early. By 4:30, Valley Brook flickers to life. Leo’s already there—punctual as sunrise, handsome as ever, full of caffeine and charm. He wants to move in. I tell him I’ve only got one bedroom. “So what?” he grins. I laugh. “I’m difficult,” I say. “Even to know.” He’d hate me before coffee. That gets a real laugh. He says he likes energy. I say I’m okay with that.

The Riverwalk calls. I answer. From Annsville Creek to Charles Point, the boardwalk slick with dew and dog prints. That woman again—same question, same urgency: “Do you read the Peekskill Herald?” She’s got a dog this time, dragging her like a freight train. I say yes, again. She warns me about the wet planks, says someone ought to call the city before someone breaks a hip. Then she mistakes the woman I’m talking to for my mother. That woman had just asked where I was from. I say, “Right here. Peekskill.” She forgets. Says she’s Jamaican from the Bronx. Wants to be friends. I take her number. I probably won’t call. She’s looking for something I’m not. And that’s the end of that.

By five, the town is stretching its limbs. Trucks hiss open—milk, bread, bottled water. Coffee walkers nod like monks. Migrants gather on South Street, waiting for work. The freeway hums toward Manhattan. Buses idle by the library, engines purring like cats. I grab a java at Valley Brook, trade banter with Leo, then drift to Pugsley Park. The air is soft. The morning is kind.
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I close my eyes. Thank the heavens. And breathe.