Morning always comes

I thought I never liked mornings much. Not because they were the beginning of something new, when the old was still setting in, but because they always started early. Sometimes, it was still dark when I had to peel off the blanket and let the warmth of my body meet the chill of the room. Some other times the brightness was trying to make its way through my eyelashes, but my eyelids were still carrying the whole weight of last night’s sleep. And then there were the mornings that started late. The ones when I could wake up only to go back to sleep again, the ones when you kept the radio volume low and the door to my room closed, the ones when, dragging my body still heavy with sleep to the kitchen, there was always something on the table. I liked those mornings. 

I also liked the mornings when, before leaving, you opened the bedroom door slowly and tiptoed to my bed to drop a kiss on my cheek, and when, for fear of it disappearing the moment your lips lifted, I quickly turned to trap it between my cheek and the pillow. Then there were the mornings when you had a day off, and you walked with me the short walk between home and school. When you carried my bag and held my hand, when you asked me about my dreams and I told you not of those that I wandered through the night before, but of those that wandered through my mind endlessly. You didn’t laugh and you didn’t tell me they were foolish. Instead, you got me a notebook so I could write them down, so I would never forget them. The mornings that I liked the most were those when you called in sick only to stay home with me. It didn’t happen often, cause I was almost never sick. And when I was, my body was burning and my throat felt like it had just been rubbed with sandpaper. But you were making me tea, and soup, and you were bringing me ice cream in bed. 

And then I left and all my mornings looked the same. They were all silent, some dark, some bright, some starting when the night was still lingering, and the day was anxious to take its place. There was no tiptoeing, no kisses and no food on the table. I didn’t walk to work. I took the bus, and then another bus where nobody was looking at each other and there was nobody holding my hand. I didn’t talk about my dreams, and I stayed all by myself when I got sick. I always had ice cream and I never ate it in bed. To bring my own remedy was not as healing as your hands passing me the bowl, not as therapeutic as when you were lying next to me, reading, and I was letting the ice cream melt down my throat. I didn’t like mornings then. I still don’t. But they don’t last. Mornings turn into days, days into evenings and then there’s night. 

I always thought of you as the break of day. That first light that makes its way through the night, slips through the cracks in the door, pierces the room from under the curtains, and then takes over like it never left. Without me noticing, you turned into day and became evening. There was still light, but it was slowly dimming, like someone was turning off the switch. It was a slow evening, like those at the end of long summer days. There was buzzing in the air and breeze in our hair. I carried your bag and held your hand, and I asked you about your day. You told me not about the one that was just running from us, but the one that languidly spread in front of us. You laughed and when you did, you snorted, like I always do when there’s too much of me that wants to burst. You told me there were still places you wanted to go, and I promised to take you there. You said there was still food you didn’t try, and I cooked it for you. When you got sick, I made you juice and mashed the fruits. I read for you in bed and I brought you water when you were thirsty. You were getting tired, and I was getting scared. But I knew it was my turn to be your morning, and I never liked mornings more.