They were *always* awake by the time my sisters and I rolled out of bed.
The house would be completely silent. Until you reached the living room. There, on two separate bath towels my grandparents would be doing their morning gymnastics. The every-day regimen differed slightly, but consisted basically of a variety of what today's gurus might loosely define as yoga. Interspersed with jumping jacks and a plethora of runner's stretches.
The TV was never on. I think the radio may have been, but it was barely audible at best.
And so it went. Every morning. Between 6 and 7.
I randomly remembered this last night, as I was engaged in various stretches on my patio. Waiting for my eggs to cool so I could peel them, paused on one leg, trying not to topple, I vowed to continue their magical moments of bodily peace.
Best part? The mug of honey water that always signalled the end of the routine & official start of the day. I'm thinking I may have to stick with coffee for now. But then again, I'm no sage 70-year-old.
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