Good Morning, Sun.

I creep out into my kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The floorboards are cold beneath my feet and make little noises as I walk around my apartment; it makes me giggle to myself. My husband always said it reminded him of piano tiles. My eyes are still adjusting to the dark as I reach the fridge, the light illuminating the familiar sage green walls to my sides. I reach inside for my water purifier and turn around to set it on the island behind me, staring a little too long at the papers scattered across the surface. A reminder.

I turn my head away, leaving the refrigerator open to use the light to help search for my step stool. Although I chose to rent this apartment, I am unfortunately too short to reach most of my cabinets, and my water cups are at the very top. I whip my head around, maybe it’s the dim lighting getting the best of me tonight, but I can’t seem to find my pale pink stool. I always leave it right in the corner, so it never has the chance to grow legs and walk too far, or as my husband would say, so that I never have the chance to misplace it. But it appears I’ve done just that, anyways.

I try to remind myself it’s okay, and with the past couple days I’ve had it only makes sense that a few things here and there wouldn’t be how they usually are, that a few things might get lost during the process. But it’s more than that. It’s not just the step stool, it’s the frequency of my lifeline that seems to have been disrupted recently. Like, the angels of the universe strummed on my band of fate a little too hard and broke something vital, something nourishing. My ribs hurt from protecting my heart these past couple days, because the damn fragile thing can’t seem to take on anymore distress. It hurts to breathe now, as if the fresh air is too clean for a body that feels stained.

I blink a few times, clearing my vision that has started to blur and head over to my tupperware cabinet. Opening it slowly out of habit so it doesn’t creak too loud and cause a disturbance. I stand on my tippy toes, like a ballerina might do when in a jewelry box, stretching and reaching for the white cup on the edge of the top shelf. I know I can get it, it’s right at the trim of my fingernails; I just need to knock it down and catch it. My shirt lifts above my waistline, revealing my stomach to the brisk night air of my apartment as I strain for the cup.  

“Almost there,” I mutter to myself. Just one more flick. 

And suddenly, a warm hand wraps around my waist and while the other reaches just above my head, acquiring the cup for me. I know the callouses on his hands as I would the moles on my own body. I have studied and traced those rough edges for the better years of my life. He chuckles to himself, the sound dances in my ears, reminding them of how sweet his laugh is. I would use it as honey in my morning tea, if possible. I don’t even take the cup from his hands before immediately turning and burying my face in his chest with wet eyes. The smell of lavender, and patchouli kissing my tears away. The smell of home.  

I look up, catching the light of the refrigerator bouncing off the brown of his eyes, round with love but just ever so slightly glossy; similar to a characteristic I’ve heard people might gain in death. The lack of life to their eyes.

He doesn’t say a word, he just takes my small hand in his, leading me to the middle of our kitchen. My stomach is full of butterflies, they kiss the bruises on my ribs and bury themselves in the wounds of my heart. The tenderness in which they fly with has already become foreign to me just in this past week, I thought I’d never know comfort like this again. My husband starts to hum the tune to the song we had our first dance to on our wedding day. I hum along, harmonizing with him as we sway, back and forth, dancing in the refrigerator light like we used to do as teenagers. The rhythm of our footsteps matches the beat of my heart, a careful reminder of our love, even if death does us part. Our hands still grasped, he extended them outwards, giving my body a soft push backward, then he pulls me forwards again gently, twirling me on my way back to him. My hair flows in a golden aura around my face and neck, as my back hits his torso. He kisses the top of my head, inhaling as he does so, trying not to make his longing obvious, but I don’t care if mine is worn on my sleeve and drips from my pores. He arms wrap around my chest, as he buries his chin into the crook of my neck.

We stay there, silent, I fear even the sound of my coarse morning voice would break the goodness of this moment, almost as if it’s a gift of glass from the universe. We stand facing the large window in our kitchen, watching the sun say good morning to the sky and goodbye to her lover, the moon. We watch the trees start to absorb the sunlight, and the dewy grass get nibbled on by passing animals.

We watch, until the sun walks into my apart, skipping across the tile floor and touching my bare feet; then it is just I who is standing in my kitchen, in the refrigerator light, watching the sunrise. I feel the shift almost as quickly as I blink, and as I breathe. Suddenly, the room isn’t so warm anymore, the sun not as bright. The walls are a duller shade of green and I realize I never poured myself water, I never even actually got a cup. The white plastic is still sitting at the top of my open cupboard, as if no one has been here at all.