The alarm howls the same way every morning: The thick voice of a DJ blurred by intermittent static. Sometimes he's introducing a song, sometimes he's announcing the weather, sometimes he's talking about nothing. But it's always the same: His voice. That static. The desperate reach for the snooze button. It's been the same way since Christmas of last year, when we got this alarm clock.
The only thing that changes in my morning rousing is the room around me. The position of the sun, the amount of light or lack thereof coming through the white blinds. The room is either flooded with light or terribly dark when we wake, depending on the season. Right now, we're in the transition. The sun is hesitant, barely peeking into our room when we wake. Like he's not sure he wants to see us yet, either. It feels more like dusk than dawn in our bedroom these days. Bright enough to function, but cozy enough in its dim lighting to settle back into the covers and sleep longer.
It's also colder. I open my eyes to the air of our room and know that freeing myself from the cocoon of blankets I'm in will be miserable. I know it's like Antarctica on the other side of those sheets, and I don't want to expose my skin to the freezing temperatures. So I hit snooze one more time and roll into Billy, whose sleepy lips kiss my smooth forehead. He pulls me in closer to him there, in sleep, and we lay like that until the alarm screams again. I look at the blinds, survey the position of the sun, feel the air of the room with my face, then make the decision to hit snooze just this last time.
When the clock tells me I have less than 45 minutes to get ready and go, I begrudgingly heft myself from the supple mattress and high-thread count sheets and The Urchin we're surrounded in. One leg, then the other, flops over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. I search for my morning coat in the semi-darkness. I make sure the alarm is set for Billy's wake up time. I head out into the hallway, on my way downstairs to make the coffee.
I leave Billy's travel mug, full of prepared coffee, on the table on his side of the bed. I kiss his warm face before I leave the room, and I head out to take my shower. When I return, Billy is always sitting, half-propped by pillows, coffee in hand, remote pointed at the television. He smiles when I walk in, hot pink towel wrapped around my head. That smile makes my morning, every morning.
"Good morning, baby," he says sweetly, his eyes soft, his face sweet. All mine.
It always is.