Love

Love

"Sun's up."

Silence.

"Sun's up, I said." 

She knew he heard her, knew he was awake because she had seen his left eye flicker open--briefly--but long enough to know that he was in there, conscious, wide awake. . . . well, maybe not wide awake, but awake enough, aware of time and tasks.

That's what he called his days: Time and Tasks. "Time to do this task and this task, and then, if you need to do task number 4, you better have completed 2 and 3 first. It's endless." His signature moan: endless.

"Let's name them," she had said once, brightly. Too brightly, but if that was her only fault, not so bad. "What about 'opportunities?'"

"Tasks. Shorter word. Easier to remember."

"Gifts. Also one syllable and positive."

"Tasks. Indicates contribution and maturity--nothing is free in this world."

Back and forth every morning, a version of the same conversation until she stood up, pulled back the sheet, the duvet (with the silent t), and announced "Sun's up...and so are we!"

He hated that false, early morning cheer, and, if he was being totally honest with himself, hated that it worked, got him awake and moving every morning.

Well, he was up now, could smell the coffee and would....again...whisper in her ear (even it if wasn't true), "Thank you for getting me up." 

        A stretch for him, but, as she had explained to him more than once, love works in mysterious ways.