slow motion

The day starts shortly after 6 am. I wake up every day just like that. At least for once my body is dead on reliable as I am supposed to take two drugs between 6 and 8 am. So I swallow the stuff in the dark and lie back for a doze or even more sleep until R's alarm goes. I watch him getting up, his day's pressures and schedules are already noticable on his face. We touch briefly, silently, sharing comfort and warmth. When he goes downstairs I usually sleep/doze some more with the murmurings from the worldservice news coming up from the kitchen.
When he is done with getting ready I go downstairs to watch him zipping up his coat and putting on his warm gloves. Another hug and he is out of the door and I watch him walking through the garden, leaving on his bicycle.
I pour myself a cup of tea and go back upstairs and climb back into bed. The cat follows me. She seems to like me being around at this time of the day. Back under the covers I let the waking up begin. Now it is too cold to have the windows open, so no birdsong, no school kids, no busy neighbours getting into their cars.  Instead I silently wait for daylight to take hold and then I read for a while with the cat watching me. I work hard on drawing this out for almost an hour. There is a lot of lonely daytime ahead. Too much time, too little energy.

How I would cherish a speedy morning from not too long ago: Up and shower and breakfast, quick glance through the newspapers, goodbye and off on my bicycle. All motion, brisk, efficient, energetic, ready and expectant. Like a snap with my fingers and knowing, knowing all the time that whatever challenges this day will bring I will manage. In fact, that was always the best part, the challenges.