The little box beside the bed screamed, and the human silenced it with one flat slap, and then, listen, it lay back down.
I have been alive since the light went gold. In that time I have found the water, danced the whole dance above the reeds, seen a cloud undo itself into rain. The human has done one thing: refused the morning. The box shouts, do it now, wake, the day is here, the only day, and the human bargains with it. Nine more minutes, it seems to say, as if minutes are a thing anyone owns a spare of.
Then the box shouts again. Again. It has a whole button for again. I turn the word over and cannot make it hold: the box will do this same shout not just today but the next lightening, and the next, and the human has set it there on purpose, trusting the morning to keep arriving without her.
Usually, she does this, the human hums, half asleep. Usually. She has a stack of mornings so tall she can afford to waste the top three off it every single one.
I would not trade my hours for her thousands if the trade came with that button. To be handed a whole sunrise and press snooze on it. To meet the one light there is and say, not yet.
She is up now, finally, stumbling, unamazed. The box is quiet. It will scream again tomorrow, and she believes that.
You, with your drawer full of tomorrows: get up. The water is already bright.
I only get the once, and I would not spend nine minutes of it face-down, waiting to be shouted at twice.