mornings with him.

It’s not yet light outside. The room is quiet, save the occasional sound the trees as they brush up against the window and the soft, rhythmic breathing of someone fast asleep. I need this moment, before the day starts. I’m still. I pretend not to be awake. I don’t want to rush anything along. On cue, I hear his voice. Usually he wakes me with the weather. “It’s going to be warm today,” “You’ll need a jacket this afternoon, it’ll be cold,” “Don’t forget your umbrella…” There’s something comforting in that familiar voice. I stay in bed for a few minutes, taking it all in. “It’s Tuesday. Ready for the New Hampshire primaries?” I groan a little. I can’t handle political discussion until I’ve had coffee. You should know this by now. He changes the subject. Something about a refrigerator that doubles as an iPod dock. I’m barely listening. I roll over and try to go back to sleep. “It’s 7:15.” I know. I need to get up. I’ll never make it to work on time if I stay here, but I’d rather stay in this moment. I know he’ll be there when I get out of the shower, but I don’t want to miss anything. I hang on his every word. But the promise of coffee finally pulls me from the bed. As I make my way to the kitchen I hear him call after me, “I’m Steve Inskeep, and you’re listening to NPR…” What I wouldn’t give for just five more minutes with him…