I’m most selfish in the morning. When the rim of the bright burning ball first breaches from the waves like a smooth, gray whale aflame, I go mum and stare until my eyes ache with bloody reds and warm glowing oranges that ride the clouds across the sea as the waves below reflect it all back and it seems there are two sunrises in one; I’m gobbled up by the harshness of the first—it’s rays get harder and harder and the deep red turns to orange and yellow and gold, suddenly free of the clouds and the horizon and just swallowing the gray mist rising off the beach; the second is constantly broken into tiny crystals that stretch back across the undulating sea and over the tan sand towards my window. The blind is cracked an inch and my eyes are pressing towards the gap, unblinking, watery, alone—no one else in the house budges, no matter the cawing of the gull or the slap slap slap of the waves below the porch—this morning every bed is full and the kids are hanging off the edges of cots on the screen porch, sheets askew, sand everywhere, salt rimmed shorts scattered across wicker furniture, towels wet with dew getting crisp with dried salt. I never wake them, wake anyone; somehow I think this moment is mine…my uncle is here, he very nearly preached the sunrise to me when I was young, but he doesn’t stir these mornings either, somehow…I don’t know how they sleep, but I steal this moment each morning and burn its rays back deep in my memory and know that maybe I’ll speak of them later, but that later won’t be for years and years and years.
frances on In the Morning BenML’s #CBR5… on World War Z by Max Brooks BenML’s #CBR5… on While Mortals Sleep by Kurt Vo… The Cabin (Part VI/T… on The Cabin (Part V) The Cabin (Part VI/T… on The Cabin (Part IV)