Morning does not ask for permission.
It arrives regardless of whether you slept well. Regardless of whether you trust the season. Regardless of whether the bulbs are ready to bloom.
The sun cuts through the curtains at 6:13 a.m.
I wake before the alarm.
Marcus is still asleep.
His breathing is deep.
Rhythmic.
Untroubled.
I watch him for a moment.
The lines around his eyes are softer than they used to be.
The tension in his jaw is gone.
He looks like a man who has put down a heavy box he carried for too long.
I slip out of bed.
The floor is cold.
I pull on a sweater.
Walk downstairs.
The kitchen is dim.
The kettle is ready.
I turn it on.
Wait for the boil.
The sound is familiar.
Click.
Hiss.
Steam.
I make tea.
Chamomile.
Honey.
Lemon.
I carry the mug to the study
