A Girl...

The Routine: Two-Plus Years out of Six

I don't tell you enough how much I appreciate your waking me up every morning.

Sometimes, when you tap into the room on your hard-soled slippers, I'm already awake, lying there in the early half-light of another work day, enjoying the transitory quiet punctuated perhaps by the clicking of computer keys or the swish of a page turning as you study in the next room. Sometimes I hear you whisper songs to the cat or tell her to tiptoe when she's chasing her toys, so as not to wake me.

When I hear you push back from the desk and head toward our room, I close my eyes, straighten my grinning lips into the peaceful line of sleep, and hope that this is one of those days you'll not just announce the time and move on, a town crier in your own home, but sit on the edge of the bed, maybe lay down and rest your cheek on mine for a moment.

This morning I did not wake to the susurrus of cars on the street outside, the water pipes groaning in the walls, the gurgle and grind of the coffeemaker. Today it was your cheek on my cheek, your hand on my waist, your words in my ear. Happy anniversary, you said. Happy anniversary, I said, not responding but repeating, my voice becoming your murmured echo in the cavern of our room.

Would you be mad if I told you my alarm clock wasn't broken after all? Would you help me throw it out the window should it sound tomorrow morning?

Thank you for making my life less ordinary.