Tomorrow Is Waiting

Every day begins and ends the same. The aroma of brewing coffee and the sunrise only just peeking over the horizon are the first things to greet her senses when she heads downstairs. Horses in the pasture are freshly awoken, nickering good morning to each other and eagerly awaiting their breakfast, while the rooster crows and the jays and sparrows begin their day in song. Her husband shoves his feet into his boots by the front door, giving her a grin and a kiss to her cheek before fixing his hat on his head and making his way out to feed their ranch's menagerie. She fries up three eggs, a few strips of bacon and potatoes, toasts two slices of bread, then pours the cups of coffee that her husband had started for them. He comes back inside as she's placing their food on the table, they have their morning meal together, and then he's right back out the door to join their ranch hands in their daily work. After washing the dishes, she begins her own.

She sets about her usual activities. She does the laundry, gathers eggs from the chicken coop, bakes a new loaf of bread, sweeps and vacuums, and makes a light lunch for the two of them. Her husband is in and out again, even briefer than their morning meal. She spends her afternoons sewing torn articles of clothing, reading her newest find from the tiny, secondhand bookstore in town, and then posting her opinion of it chapter by chapter on her bookworm blog. By the time the shadows are creeping up the walls and the sun rests low in the sky, she's got dinner finishing up on the stove. And in comes her husband, dusty and smelling of leather and dirt and horses, but smiling, always smiling. They eat and then do the dishes together while the radio plays soft twangy tunes, laughing and talking. They sit on the porch, watching the sky turn from streaks of orange and purple into a sparkling inky black. His arm around her, he whispers into her ear the three words he's said to her every day since he proposed, and she's warm with the thought that this is what it means to be absolutely content. This is the way she always wants it to be. As she revels in this sense of peace and comfort, to the moon and stars she marvels, Every day begins and ends the same.

Somewhere between the taste of coffee and the scent of bacon one morning, her stomach is in revolt. After her housework and before lunch, she heads into town for what she suspects will clear everything up. The cashier eyes her purchase but says nothing, and though there should be no reason to be judged either way, she's grateful for the silent acceptance. Upon her return home, with her husband fed and back to work, she pulls the stick out of the paper bag and heads to the bathroom. She waits with anxious anticipation, and once the two lines appear, she can't help but laugh and smile through her blurry tears. Dinner that night is quieter than usual, with tension underlying, and her husband can tell something's up. When they finish eating, he asks, and she tells him. He jumps up from his chair like the shock to his ears was a shock to his body. He goes to her and pulls her up from her chair too, they hug and laugh in wonder, and he spins her gently into an impromptu dance. They wash the dishes that night with glee in their voices, and on the porch swing as they gaze at the night sky, they softly give voice to new plans. When her husband whispers those three words, he presses his cheek to her temple, and she can feel the warm wetness there. There will be some changes, some scary and some wonderful, but still, she knows there is something she can always rely on. Every day begins and ends the same.

The smell of coffee and the sunrise streaming through her bedroom window greet her just as always. Downstairs, her husband has put the coffee on, and in the nursery next door, their son is awakening and hungry for breakfast. She goes and lifts him from his crib, and they make their way downstairs. Her husband is just coming back inside from feeding the animals, and he kisses her and their son before heading into the kitchen to make breakfast while she nurses. After eating, their son goes in the playpen while she does the housework, checking in with him every little while, taking time to stop and play with him. He has his father's lively eyes and warm smile, her button nose and prominent dimples. Their afternoons are both full and lazy, and while she still reads and writes her blog, she finds herself doing it after finishing whole books instead of chapters; she's just too busy with her son to find the time for it every day. But it's okay. Her family is her whole world. She doesn't need anything else. When the three of them sit out on the porch that night, gently rocking as their son falls asleep in their arms, her husband says those three words to their son, then to her. And she can only be glad that this is how it is. Every day begins and ends the same.

The sky is painted pastel blue and orange, and the sun's warmth is just beginning to thaw the frost from the night before. She goes downstairs, and her husband gives her a kiss as he heads out to feed. She starts on breakfast, five eggs, bacon and potatoes, and three slices of toast. She pours the coffee and a cup of apple juice. Her husband has just come back in when she finishes setting everything out on the table, and he smiles at her like always, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently as she passes by him to go wake their son upstairs. Their son enters the kitchen shortly after she returns, and breakfast is a quick but pleasant affair. She packs her son's lunch while he changes his clothes for school, and on his way out to the bus, she gives him a hug and a peck on the cheek, much to his scowling dismay. He's told her many times he's ten years old now and much too old for kisses from his mother. But she persists because on the one day she hadn't, he had come home sullen and sour, and she somehow knew it was because that day hadn't been the same as it always is. She shakes her head at the memory and picks up the next t-shirt to fold. The house is near silent on schooldays, with her son away and her husband out working the land as usual. While she hates the silence, she finds solace in the surety that her evenings will end in lively dinner conversation and calm nights on the porch under the stars. Late that afternoon, while her son does his homework at the table, and she wonders why her husband is still yet to come home, there's a knock at the door that sends a jolt up her spine. She opens it to a ranch hand with pinched eyes and lips, who removes his hat and tells her there's been an accident. The world falls out from under her feet; every sight and sound feels distant and fuzzy. That night while sitting on the porch swing, staring unseeingly out at the blood orange and gray sunset, she tells herself firmly, desperately, “Every day begins and ends the same.”

She drags herself out of bed to the sound of the rooster's crow, to the sight through her window of a dark sky graying out into light. She makes her way down to the kitchen and puts a pot of coffee on to brew, then goes out to toss flakes of hay to the horses and compost to the chickens. It isn't until after she's back inside and pouring herself a cup that she realizes she's made too much again. She microwaves two bowls of oatmeal and sits at the table, staring at her husband's boots and hanging hat at the front door, where they've sat since they were brought back three weeks ago. Her son comes down already changed for school, eats his oatmeal silently, and after setting his bowl in the sink, heads out to sit at the bus stop early like he has every day since he started going back to school. She sees him pull his knees up and curl himself over them, and wonders how, despite her own grief, she could be so remiss. Some of her friends stop by with a casserole that afternoon, and she's relieved she won't have to cook dinner. Her friends try to encourage her, but once they leave, she only feels more uncertain as to what the future holds. At dinner that night, she watches her son pick at his food and then quietly help her with the dishes after. There is no music, no laughter, and no smiles. Only a heavy quiet, interrupted every so often by the clanking of two plates or a drop of water plopping from the faucet into the full sink. She takes her son's hand afterward and leads him out to the porch, their ritual in which he never resists. They curl up on the swing and watch as the sun sets; until pink and purple turn to black, and the moon and stars illuminate the night, casting a glow on everything their light touches. She whispers three words into her son's soft locks, and chokingly, he whispers them back. Even after everything, one thing hasn't changed. Every day begins and ends the same. 

It's been a few months since her son went off to college. She still wakes up every morning to the sunrise and rooster, to birdsong and whinnying horses. She still makes coffee and breakfast—now just for one—and instead of conversation at the table, she works through another chapter of her most current read. She started her blog up again a few months after the funeral, and the support has grown steadily ever since. She doesn't only write about the books she's reading anymore, but about the book she's writing, her everyday life, and the promise of tomorrow. Now that her son has left she's begun packing, is what she tells her followers. Her family was her life, and every day for so, so long, it was the same old routine with few variations, all with the focus on her home and loved ones. But now that it was only her, what was to be her life? She had never indulged in any hobbies outside of her reading and writing. She was directionless. But she knew she would never figure it out if she remained here in this world which was at a standstill. It would be all too easy to stay and live this life of sameness and simple comfort. But if she did, she too would be caught in that standstill forever. She would have to break the routine if she ever wanted to see what else the world had in store, what else she was capable of, and what more she could experience. So she had packed. She swung gently under the stars, and on the last day that she could still honestly say it, she closed her eyes and did. “Every day begins and ends the same.”

“Every day begins and ends the same.” She breathed in the crisp morning air. “But maybe, sometimes, it doesn't have to.” And after taking one last look at the house holding so many precious memories, bathed in fresh golden light, where both everything and nothing ever changed, she said a final goodbye. Then, loading her suitcase into her car, she got in and pulled onto the road. She drove toward the sunrise; to where a new day is beginning, tomorrow is waiting, and every day can begin and end anew.