Mornings

I remember the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. The slow, heavy, methodical steps in the morning and the sounds of our creaky bedroom floor coming from upstairs beforehand.

He always walked down with his insulated cup in one hand and tablet in the other. Set down the cup and immediately adjusted the thermostat. That's when I would get up from the table and go give him a big hug.

Sometimes I would return to what I was doing (likely my morning devotionals). Other times I'd join him in the kitchen to get some breakfast or putz around while he got ice water and made breakfast.

On most mornings he would have breakfast and go back to sleep. We had a song about it (to the tune of Celine Dion's "Do you believe in life after love"): "Do you believe in sleep after sleep (echo: after sleep, after sleep)". He would make "his stack" of pillows and many days I'd cover him with a blanket. He'd sleep while P and I did our morning routine and went for a walk. I was always relieved when he was still sleeping when we got home. Less time for him to be awake and lonely.

Mornings are different now. No sound of his footsteps, no big warm hug. No little chat or catch up or "how did you sleep"? No one to rush home to from a walk. Which is freeing and sad at the same time.

But I sure miss those footsteps and that soft warm hug. He gave the best hugs.