I am what you would call a morning person.
I wake up each morning…much earlier than is ever necessary.
I can literally hear life and all of its chores and all of its adventures whispering in my ear…telling me that I’m missing out, I’m running out of time to accomplish all of the things I want to accomplish.
Usually, this spurs me to action.
I leave my husband to sleep and I go to the gym, I start the laundry, I start a craft, I run out for coffee, I get to work early or I begin the repetitive task of cleaning every inch of my house.
This morning it was different.
My mind was working much slower than usual…there is a good chance it had something to do with the spirits I indulged in last night or the fact that it was a cool, cloudy, Sunday morning…regardless, I told life to shut up and shove it.
I rolled over and over in attempt to find a position that wouldn’t make my head pound, it was a futile attempt and when I finally gave up I found my eyes resting on my sleeping husband.
I have woken to his sleeping face for the majority of the last 5 years.
Long perfect lashes, eye brows in dissaray, lines and impressions on his face from too much time spent against a pillow and that mouth perfectly pouting as though someone in dreamland just gave him some bad news. I’ll never get tired of it. I’ll never lose the rush of pleasure that accompanies the reminder that he is mine and mine to keep.
Those first confusing moments in the morning are my favorite. Utterly beautiful and painful, as your brain works to catch you up and remind you who you are and what your life is. All of your memories, decisions, accomplishments, mistakes, blessings, love and hurt and loss are shoved into the tiniest of moments…and you’re given another day.