In our house, I am the first to rise.

I wake before the birds begin to sing, just before the sky seeps pink on our backyard mango tree.

I brew coffee, light sandalwood incense and type some string of words.

Then I return to silence. Our sleeping house is still full of dreaming.

There are two beds.
In one, a Bohemian man deep rests his gardening body.
In the other, an eight year old boy is fluffed beneath a comforter of feathers.

In early light I make my rounds.

Crawl in beside the Bohemian to feel the restful closeness which I know will soon morph to activities of breakfast and jingling car keys. He may never open his eyes – not quite this early. But his hands will meet me, arms will pull me in.

Eventually, they will release me to the second bed. Where I’ll slide in and tuck beneath the full soft blankets, filling my nose with the soft scent of my son’s hair. Feel his boney elbow press against my ribs. Whisper to him, “it’s another beautiful day” and know not just what he’ll do.

In fickle eight-year old fashion, he may turn and hug me tight. Or he may squirm and grumble “mom, I’m tired…”

The mango comes on in golden glory. Birds seem to celebrate the sun. The stick of incense, now ash. Coffee mug is empty.

The stirring begins. Soon morning’s water will be splashing in the sink.