November 23

Let the day begin before sunrise.

Let it begin in utter darkness, totality, a question about whether it rained as the pavement shimmers under the streetlight or its your early eyes playing tricks on you.

Let the morning uncurl its fingers while you start the coffee then place your forehead on the yoga mat to stretch your hips, back then right then left. Back arched, heels to the floor—this is how to start the day. A bit of movement, a sling of momentum.

Hold the coffee in your right hand while you hold a book in your left and the cat, forever at your side, tucks into your hip like a leaf of lettuce. She prefers you pet her first, but some hip-to-hip contact will do.

You read for as long as you can get away with, watching the bus drive by at quarter after seven, a sign that it’s time to get up and rouse children from slumber. You touch a shoulder, kiss a forehead. Time to get up, then flip on the hall light and head downstairs.

Let the morning begin with music, something airy and upbeat. Maybe something to sing along to while you pour another cup of coffee and sit at the kitchen table. The conversation is light, then heavy, then light again. Mountains of conversation against melody and harmony, time signatures changing with the topic.

When will we do the grocery shopping or go to the gym? When will we give the cat a bath? When will you get to shower or lie down for an hour? When will you write a poem?

A thousand minutes pass, or maybe just a few. The sun is up now, and it’s hard to tell what time it is. One child is getting on the bus. Another needs to get dressed and brush her teeth. You’re still in your pajamas, which you stayed in all day yesterday until finally, at four o’clock, you took a steamy bath and washed it all away.

That was Sunday and this is Monday.

But who cares? Every day is the same, which is magnificent and boring, which is what the messy middle feels like. Are you paying attention?

Eventually the morning gives way. It buckles under the weight of you. It lifts its heels and floats away. You know there’s tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. Who can think of that now? There is only this and this and this. Right now, right here, this.