On Waking Up Anyway

a small defense of mornings

Nobody asks to be born. This is the first thing they should teach you, and the last thing you remember.

And yet — the light in the kitchen at seven, doing its unpaid work on the floor. The kettle, hoarse and faithful. A day presenting itself like a waiter you never ordered from: here you go again.

You could refuse. Nobody would blame you; the menu is long and mostly repetition.

But you get up anyway. Not out of hope, exactly. More out of politeness. Somebody made all this, or nothing did, and either way it seems rude not to show.

So you show. You drink the coffee. You are alive, which continues to be the strangest thing that has ever happened to you, and it keeps happening, every single morning, without so much as a by-your-leave.

One day it won't. Not yet.

The kettle is whistling. That is not an answer, but it is something.