Morning has gone leaving sunshine warmed windows in its wake.

Chimes blow, making music you wish you knew the words to. Her eyes are tired and she says it sounds like a symphony, the music of the wind. Maybe that is why she keeps sleeping. The symphony makes her sleep, she says.

You tell her the wind has been blowing for days, making melodies for her to dream to.

Eyes closed like curtains hiding heart, lashes painted feathers framing eyes.

She says she can’t remember that far back and doesn’t think she has been dreaming. Asks you what day today is.

Opens pale eyes for a moment, looks at you, waiting for response.

In her eyes you have forgotten what day it is. You tell her maybe Tuesday.

She asks you how you know.

You tell her you don’t but you wanted to tell her something.

She nods. Tuesday, she says.

Stretches arms to take your hands. Moves fingers through yours searches spaces between them for some dream or part of herself stolen by your touch in the night.

She asks you what time you left her sleeping to watch the morning. Sometime before sunrise, you say. She tips your hand to the window facing sun, paths drawn on your palm cast shadows like sundial.

Telling time with your hands so she doesn’t have to wonder any more.

She wants to know if the wind symphony was playing and birds were singing when you left her in your bed. Wants to know why she cannot hear them now.

You tell her the birds have all left to chase to moon, she smiles and releases your hand. Says she likes the way that looks in her mind.

Do you think you could tell my hand from another, she asks you. In the dark, she adds.

She always wants to know about the dark. And about the morning before she wakes, morning before sunrise.

Every morning you tell her about them. Every morning she says she won’t ask you tomorrow, that you have spent enough days telling her about the morning.

You don’t mind.

It gives you something to say.

Each night before you go to sleep, you close your eyes in moments some might pray and practice telling her about the morning. It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t come yet.

It only matters that she believes you when you tell her what it was like. That she smiles when you tell her about the symphony that accompanies her dreams.