CorrieGreathouse.com

08.21.11

Morning has gone leaving sunshine warmed windows in its wake.

Chimes blow, making music he wishes he knew the words to.

Her eyes are tired. 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.

He tells her the wind has been blowing for days, making melodies for her to dream to.

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

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

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

In her eyes he has forgotten what day it is. He tells her maybe Tuesday.

She asks him how he knows.

He says he doesn’t but he wanted to tell her something.

She nods, her head against the pillow. Tuesday, she says. 

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

Asks him what time he left her sleeping to make sure the morning came. Sometime before sunrise, he says. She tips his hand toward the window facing sun, his hand casts shadows across her like a sundial. 

Uses his touch to tell time so she doesn’t have to wonder any more.

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

He tells her the birds have all left to chase to moon. She smiles and releases his hand. Says she likes the way that looks in her mind.

Closes her eyes.

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

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

Every morning he tells her about them. Every morning she says she won’t ask him tomorrow, that he has spent enough days telling her about the morning.

He doesn’t mind. 

It gives him something to say. 

He doesn’t tell her that. 

Each night before he goes to sleep, he closes his eyes, and in moments some might pray, practices telling her about the morning. It doesn’t matter that it hasn’t come yet.

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

He resolves to take pictures of the morning so he can wrap his arms around her and hold her favorite time of day before her in his hands.

She will fall in love with him, he thinks and he will sleep better at night knowing he is loved, dreaming of ways to tell her about the morning.

She will keep sleeping.