Catching the worm

I wake early, so early that the soft warm place I occupy like an animal in its den is reluctant to let me go. The weight of the blanket around me pins me to my place and in that second I know I must break free or remain captive to the clinging bed. With an effort of will I step into the new-come chill of unheated autumn house.

I tread with care as I gather my comforts in the dark, slippers and soft jumper, barely breathing lest I should wake an interruption to my daily rituals.

Downstairs, the moon is still awake, casting its blue light over kitchen surfaces, I look for it but cannot find it so content myself with dreaming a moment longer in the glow before turning on a light and bringing the room into reality.

With sleepy hands I rinse out the coffee pot and refill it. I am emerging now from my otherworldly haze and glad of the quiet and solitude, grateful for these moments that are only mine. The smell of brewing coffee fills the house and I am reminded of a man lying upstairs who will catch a waft of reassuring familiarity.

Pulling a blanket over my knees, old woman that I am, I wallow in my little piece of time. Soon there will be steps upon the stairs, little voices declaring their hunger, little bed-warm bodies folding into mine. There will be some tension as we settle into our day roles and jostle for our place in this pack. There will be noise and negotiation, discord and discussion.

But now, right now, there is just me.