I wake up before the sun. No alarms beep at me. Nobody asks me to pour them any cereal. Everyone sleeps.
I stretch my toes down to the bottom of the flannel sheets, dig my heels into the memory foam. I lay in bed, lazy, reading blogs on my phone until my eyes adjust to the light. Once my legs are alive enough, I roll left and put my feet on the floor. I put on my slipper and robe, then make my way to the kitchen to grab Henry's Christmas mug--the one with the teddy bears; it has just the right weight in my palm--and I fill it with hot coffee. There's a fresh quart of cream in the fridge and I add a generous blop.
Moving into the living room, I set my coffee on the coaster. I open the blinds so I can watch the sun rise. I pull a quilt over my legs and grab my laptop. I call to the cat. I check my text messages, set my phone on the couch.
I turn on Pandora.
I round the corner and peek into the open classroom door. You're sitting with your brother, eating cookies. Or you're sitting and he's bounding between the desks like a wild pinball. You always look up and smile. He usually has to be asked, but he'll come hug me second. I check in with Grandma, ask if he behaved. I tell you about how tired I am, but you just smile. You're glad I'm there to get you.
I ask you what I'm going to do when we get home.
"Take a nap," you sigh, the daily refrain. You understand, though, because you too like to sleep. You have lots of homework.
"Come on, Buddy," I say to your brother. He has to be reminded, even though he wants to go home too. He dawdles. You're waiting with your rolling backpack by the door. We make our way out. Grandma says bye, she loves us.
We drive off toward home. I ask you your best and worst things. The whole night is ahead of us: a beautiful emptiness that's ours to fill.
For the next few weeks I'm writing in response to prompts from The Scintilla Project. Check it out.
Today's prompt: What does your everyday look like? Describe the scene of your happiest moment of every day.