Given the option, I’m still in bed at 9am.
So it has been a strange few days, waking up in the predawn dark to a quiet house. The kids are sound asleep. The husband, who is a 5:30am-wake-up-perky-and-brilliant sort of fellow, isn’t even up yet. I’m awake because I’m sick, because I couldn’t breath. Not breathing is a strong incentive to get out of bed.
But that doesn’t change the magic of it. The velvety dark outside the window. The silence inside. The feeling that I am the only mortal in existence, creeping through a god’s house.
It’s absurd, of course. As well as questionably authentic (remember the severely-not-a-morning-person part), but that doesn’t lessen the magic. I understand why my husband loves his mornings so. I understand this secret time, this beginning time. Night is nothing like it. Even were I to stay up all night until this same hour, it would be time stolen from night, not time stolen from day. And that difference -this window before sun that is hooked to the coming of sun- is where the magic happens.
Of course, I am so busy trying to analyze and describe the magic, I risk missing it. And with that thought, adieu.