My eyelids always flutter open, never quite sure they want the day to burst in just yet, always apparently double and triple checking to be sure that in face the sun is shining through my window and casting dancing color shadows in the dark insides of my eyes. Then I stretch out down to the tips of my toes and breathe in deep the smells of home and of weighty, beautiful rest.
I sneak into my mom's bed on Saturday mornings even now, crawl into the warm space that Dad leaves behind when he gets up early to read the newspaper and warm the coffee in the mug and scribble the crossword puzzle down. I sneak in and wrap myself tight in mom's arms, in her sleepy hug, in the clean light of the early morning when all is still except the busy robins and the thumping tail of the dog downstairs and our hands tucked into the sheets. And we soak in these last moments before I live far away and no longer can patter my bare feet on the centuries-old wooden floors, avoid the customary creaks and groans of the rickety house and clamber in, limbs flailing, to be daughter with Mom, to be close and wake up all over again into the new, new morning.