“One day I’ll break this habit…” she speaks to me in dark, eyes closed and half-asleep. She doesn’t want to move, and though I stir, I allow her to be, “…of needing you to wake me.”
6:30, waking time, she wants another five minutes. I respect and leave, will return when asked, but before I go—closing door quietly behind to limit the light from beyond—I tell, “I like being here for you.
I don’t know if she hears or is back into deep-rest state again—so fast. All I know is she doesn’t answer, but I’m glad I said it all the same.
The longer we share our lives, the more I see in honesty, there is little that she needs me for: waking up is one.
I like to be the one to bring her coffee, leave it waiting by the bathroom sink for rise and begin into her day. I like to whisper, kiss her forehead, high-turned shoulder when she sleeps upon her side; to tell to her of the time and gentle-invite her wake and rise from dream to day. I love the mornings when she hugs me close and I feel her warmth from sleep. It doesn’t happen day which makes the mornings when she does more special in their start.
I don’t want for these to leave.
I want to have something I know that I can do for her that she cannot do alone: waking up is one.
It’s nice to be needed, even more—to be loved. I believe that I am these when I wake her from her sleep.
Of all the habits we could change—this one, I hope we never break. I love to be the one that wakes her into day.