I woke up 7am, one hour later than I would have liked to. A dusty, yellow-tinged sunrise masked by clouds entered through the windows. A strange dream lingered on my mind. Was it a gambling den I was in, or was I trying to help my family? Or both? It fades as I try to interrogate it. There’s little time, anyways. Coffee needs brewing.
In the living room, my darling Jonathan’s asleep in his usual way: halfway between sleeping on his side and his back, toes out of the blanket, moving side to side as if to say “good morning” to me. He’s stretched the blanket up and over his face, protecting him from the sunlight growing more aggressive and bright by the minute. I wash up the dishes he’s brought home from his workplace, bring down the blinds, and set the kettle to boil.
As steam begins to below up and out the kettle’s spout, I escape the kitchen for a moment. Kneeling down next to him, I caress the arm holding the blanket over his face, hardly pressing down or pulling at the surface. In turn, he brings down his blanket-guard, revealing his forearm and face. Each time I see him like this, I feel an echo of that same giddy love I could hardly handle three-going-on-four years ago. His beautiful curly hair, the beard hairs that cascade from minute lines underneath the eyes to large black strokes on his chin. The eyes I’ve looked into a million times, in deep gratitude, in longing, in a mutual understanding.
I kiss him on the forehead. “Good morning, my love,” I whisper. “Rrrrrggggghhhh”, he responds. It’s close to good morning as I’ll hear. He arrives home at 1am most days, tired and sore after his closing shift at Walmart. My morning is the middle of his sleep. Still, we find moments like this to connect. One moment, at least, before starting work. That’s what I always aim for.