Morning Rituals

Five-thirty. No alarm—her body knows.
She lies quietly, counting her husband’s breaths
the way she used to count their daughter’s,
midnight fever checks, palm to forehead.
Now it’s just habit,
this tender accounting of the living.

Her husband’s snore tumbles, resumes.
Twenty-three years of this sound, this rhythm
she could conduct in her sleep.
She touches the doorframe on her way out—
not goodbye, just acknowledgment:
I was here, I’m going, I’ll return.

Five forty-three.
The house still holds its night breathing.
She moves through darkness like a benediction,
feet finding the squeaky board, stepping left—
a dance with the architecture of home,
learned by bruises and love.

She tucks the spider plant’s wayward child
back into its mother pot,
whispers “there you go, little one,”
the same words she uses
for the kindergartener who boards at Maple Street,
backpack bigger than body.

The coffee maker gurgles its morning prayer.
She stands in yesterday’s t-shirt,
one sock blue, one gray—
not a mistake but a choice made in darkness,
trusting her hands know which drawer holds softness.

At six-fifteen, she starts the bus.
The engine coughs twice before settling
into its rhythm.
She adjusts the rearview mirror,
catches her reflection:
hair escaping its ponytail,
sleep pooled softly at the corners of her eyes.

First stop: Elm Street.
Mr. Sikorski waits with his terrier,
identical spot every morning.
The dog wears a knitted vest—purple today.
“Morning, ladies,” he says,
and she never corrects him,
lets herself be plural.
The terrier yawns, showing pink gums, baby teeth.

Two forty-seven.
Last child delivered,
she parks the bus in its designated row.
The engine ticks its cooling song.
She gathers her thermos, her cardigan,
a drawing from little Aiden—
a bus with wings.

At the door she pauses,
touches the frame:
I was here, I’m going, I’ll return.

She does.