My morning is about to end. Morning itself will continue for several hours. I hear Brian negotiating with Kathleen for a few more minutes in bed. Soon our morning will begin in earnest. Noise and activity will ramp up. The radio will go on. I'll bustle about getting breakfast. My morning will be done.
I've been sitting here in my chair turned toward the window, feet warm on the baseboard heater, for almost two hours. I got up with Elizabeth in the last dark of night. The sky was black, the room lit only by the little memory lamp on the bookcase. We sat in the quiet, her warmth snuggled up against me. Some mornings I might have pulled out a book, eager to squeeze in another chapter or two before Kathleen was up, but I finished a book yesterday and I'm not engrossed in anything yet. So I sat and enjoyed the morning. I saw the sky go from black to dusky violet to pink to gold. I caught sight of a tiny sliver of crescent moon and a single bright star over the leaves of the rhododendron that curtains our porch between the dark branches of the maple up front.
We sat in the quiet and stillness and changing light. I've never been a morning person, but nursing has brought me close. I remember these mornings with Kathleen, finding the peace and beauty in them even as I longed for more sleep, and here I am again with Elizabeth, sitting in the quiet before our day really begins.
Now the room is bright with daylight, the sky a winter white. I hear Kathleen's voice now and Brian stirring. The mystical morning is shattered and our day begins. The day may have moments of joy and beauty and delight, but nothing quite like these early morning moments.