Morning Nonfiction

His watch alarm chimes 4:45am. The movement to silence its cry knocks his glasses off the nightstand. Dang. He listens as they fall. Sounds like they hit my travelbag; no harm done.

He can ignore the watch alarm, but the pressure in his bladder cannot be silenced. A pause at the bed's edge to simmer; something he read in a Sam Keen book. Don't jump out of bed. Simmer for a minute. Some simmers are longer than others. God bless Sam Keen, but he's got to pee.

As he makes his way to the bathroom, he smiles at a thought: a playful moment with his wife. She had issued some command and he replied, "Yessa, Ms Daisy." She smiled back and then he said something about having to "go make water." It was another moment of dialogue from the movie, but she didn't remember it and so he had to explain it and then it wasn't funny anymore. He "makes water."

The background music for the morning is the wind, the heater (always running), and a snoring dog. He makes his way to the kitchen by walking a short hallway with a rug running its length. The texture of this hall runner is known to his socked-feet. At the end of the rug, he feels the hardwood of the entry way and then quickly back to the carpet that fills most of the house. If his eyes ever fail, he thinks he'd be o.k. He can hear the landing of a pair of glasses and reads the texture of the flooring in his home with his feet and he has his father's nose. There is a superhero named Daredevil who sees with the all the senses but the eyes. I could be Daredevil.

The morning challenge: Can he plug in the coffee maker without turning on the light to see the outlet? He tries to be Daredevil and "sense" the wall, but after too many tries he gives up. I'm not a superhero. The morning cheat: he opens the refrigerator door and the utility bulb gives just enough light to see the outlet's eyes. A "click" and the orange glow of the switch tells him that for at least one more morning, there'll be coffee.

Back across the linoleum floor to the carpeted-den to retrieve the morning read - The Book of Common Prayer. As he reaches to pull the book down, he knocks over a bottle of fingernail something. Dang. Dear God, don't let this be a metaphor for my day; knocking stuff off or over.

He reads by the light of an open laptop. It's not Abe Lincoln reading by a candle, but its in the ballpark of humility. He's very thankful he heard where his glasses fell.

Thirtieth Day: Morning Prayer.
"Oh LORD, what are we that you should care for us?
mere mortals that you should think of us?
We are like a puff of wind;
our days are like a passing shadow."

Well, that confirms it. I'm not a superhero.

The sound of the shower. Ms Daisy is up. The dog will awake shortly and the sound of his tail wagging against the cage will rouse his son. Maybe the girls will sleep until 7am.

6:04am. The morning already feels like a passing shadow, a puff of wind. Mere mortals rising to greet a day that's already in progress.

"The LORD upholds all those who fall;
he lifts up those who are bowed down."

He thinks of falling glasses and falling fingernail somethings. It is a metaphor for his day. His days. He is a mere mortal and mere mortals fall or knock stuff over.

He's got to make water again.