Mornings. The fresh breeze, the start of the day. You seem to have forgotten what it felt like in the morning, the taste of honey, the bitterness of coffee, the sound of my groggy morning voice. 

“Hello,” I say, when all I want is to say more. But like everything to do with you, it’s about balance, about the right note, the exact timing. 

Some people don’t talk in the morning. You were one of them, and I wasn’t too happy about morning conversations, but it was our time anyway. The first person you speak to. The first hello. The first question, how did you sleep, what did you dream (nothing, I don’t dream, you’d say)..  

And a day that begins with you, how could it be anything less than exciting? I told you once that each morning I used to wake up, checking that my eyesight was still here, that my legs were still functioning. I never told you that the only way I would check my hearing is when you’d say good morning. I had lost my hearing a few times over the past years, randomly, as usual. It was one of the senses that I wouldn’t remember to check. But then speaking to you in the morning made me realize this was yet another day, where I had my sense of hearing, and I had you. 

That was the beauty of mornings- and the beauty and blessing of you in my life. So here’s to another morning, another day, another moment, where you still exist on this planet, and that, for me, is a good morning. 


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