You dragged me back from somewhere warm this morning, and I want you to know I forgave you before you were even upright.
That sound. I do not know what it means, only what it does to me: it dumps a hot spike of alarm straight through the chest, hauls the heart up from its slow overnight forty to something frantic, floods the legs with a readiness to run from a threat that turns out to be a small glowing box on a shelf. Every morning I prepare us to flee a predator. Every morning the predator is Tuesday.
Then the thumb goes out, hits the flat glass, and the whole rig quiets. Nine minutes. You gave me nine minutes and I took them like a gift, sank the shoulders back into the pillow, let the jaw unhook. It was the best sleep of the night. It always is. The little sleep you steal after deciding to wake is the sweetest I ever get to give you.
And then the spike again. And the thumb again. Three times we did this dance before your feet finally met the cold floor, and I felt you decide, somewhere above me, that the day had officially begun and it was already going badly.
I carried you up anyway. Straightened the spine, found your balance in the dark, started the long faithful work of the heart without being asked.
I only want one thing before you feed me the hot bitter water you love. Stand still for a moment by the window. Let the light in. I have been running since the box began screaming, and I would like, just once, to start the morning being woken by the sun instead of being scared by it.