Our bed is warm, dark, and quiet – a womb. Some first rays of violet light peek through the blinds.
This is our room in the morning. This is sacred time: the moments between sleep and waking.
Eventually, our daughter will stop nursing, roll over and begin babbling. Soon, it will be time to return to work after the holiday. We’ll switch on the lamp and that will be it.
My wife mentions a friend who died in a car accident on New Year’s Eve, someone we knew his parents. No one should have to bury their children, she says.
No, I agree.
And in the dark, I can see her reach over to her bedside table – the light comes on.
I’m going to start the coffee, I say. Scramble some eggs for breakfast.
I go downstairs, make the coffee, crack some eggs in a bowl, realize: this is the bread I break, each day is the wine I drink, and every moment is one between sleep and waking.
And what a waste of time to write it all down – except the necessity for praise.