11.25.2013




Each morning I awaken around 5.  I drift in and out of sleep until I eventually begin to listen for sounds of stirring from the bedroom across the hall; the creak of the bed and little feet on the floor.  This happens every morning almost invariably at 7 o'clock.  I move over to the side of the bed and pull back the covers.  T climbs in, eyes still closed, and puts his arm around his Papa and his legs over mine.  I brush aside his hair, lay my face against his soft little cheek, and whisper "I love you" into his ear.  

After while, I slip out of bed and tiptoe down the hall to the kitchen.  I put the teapot on the stove and stand for a moment under the glow of the string of lights above the cupboards.  I relish the early morning silence, the newness of the day.  I get flashes of a dream, but I can't remember more.  A very golden sun is just starting to hit a small patch of the back yard, and I walk outside to look at the sparkling frost on the grass until the whistling teapot calls me back inside to make the coffee.  As it steeps, I pull open the front curtains.  My car shimmers in its frosty coat.  Little Bit, the neighbors' cat, gingerly walks across the fence.  All else is quiet and still.  

I tiptoe back to the bedroom with two cups of steaming coffee, and my husband says a sleepy "good morning" as I set his down.  I gently slip back into bed, pull up the covers, and feel my boy's hand take mine.  

I smile.

2 comments:

  1. Thanks for sharing your morning. Well written.

    ReplyDelete