One Morning

It is early, before sunrise.

The house is quiet, frost in delicate patterns at the corners of the windows.

A dark grey sky lightens slowly as we inch towards morning.

Laying on my side, I flex my toes and curl my legs up towards my torso, pull the covers up higher. Fixing my gaze on the sliver of sky visible between the blinds and the window frame. Wait.

Beside me, your breath is soft and steady. You are buried beneath the quilt like a hibernating animal, just a tuft or two of hair sticking out from your den of blankets next to me.

A dog shifts at the end of the bed, stretching and then relaxing back into slumber with a sigh. I watch her for a few moments, her chest expanding and relaxing in a rhythm. Pink nose twitching here and there. Puppy dreams.

I think, I should get up and go downstairs, turn on the Christmas tree and sit in the glowing silence. So rare a moment for such a thing these days. Instead, I remain, curled into a ball and clinging to the warmth in which I find myself.

Now, a barely visible, pale, pink line is forming on the roofline of the house across the street, signaling that the day will be filled with a weak, winter sun.

I stare out the window, already organizing the next hour, the next day, in my head. The theme song to a children’s TV show on loop in my brain as it has been for days.

My mouth is dry. I need to pee. But it’s so warm, and so quiet. I will wait a bit before smashing into this peace all around me.

A bird lands on the windowsill. Maybe a wren. I can hear it tweeting softly, flapping its wings, hopping around. It is joined by another. Their heads lean towards one another briefly, as if they are going to kiss.

I should add the things floating in my noisy head to the grocery list before I forget. Butter, chickpeas, bananas, oats, garlic, toothpaste, tofu. But, I remain. Cocooned.

The other dog slinks into our room and a floorboard squeaks. I hold my breath, waiting for a wail from the room across the hall. Old, noisy house. The baby remains. Silent.

Lighter now, the pink glow of morning is joined by orange and a faint strip of sunshine cuts across our bed, landing right between you and I.

Rolling over, I scoot over to snuggle against your back. You are always so warm; a heater. I shove my hands under your side and nuzzle into the back of your neck. Closing my eyes, I recall the mornings when we first met, waking up wrapped up in each other like tangled knots.

Someone down the block starts their car, the loud engine puttering to life, straining on this frigid morning. The engine idles for a few moments, they rev it and drive away; the hum dying out slowly.

Faintly, at first, I hear a little murmur begin in the room across the hall. It is soft and high and joyful.

Rolling away from you, I glance at the monitor. She is laying on her side, playing with her stuffed fox and babbling quietly. Happily.

Sitting up, she drops her pacifier and squawks like a baby bird. Her mother, I instinctively answer, my body moving before my mind tells it to. Auto-pilot.

Feet on the jute rug, I shuffle drowsily across to her room and scoop her up from her crib. She curls into me and I stroke her hair and breathe in deep the smell of her.

Good morning, love. It is a new day.