Saturday morning

In my early twenties, one of my greatest pleasures was waking at 4 or 5 am on a Saturday morning. No alarm clock, just waking in the filtered light of the summer, or the inky stillness of the winter. I would quietly pad to the kitchen of my tiny apartment, start the coffee, and then curl up on the couch for a few hours. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would embroider and listen to the news on CNN. And when I became aware of my apartment building slowly coming to life around 10 am, I would stand up and begin my day as well.

I enjoyed this ritual because it felt like my own delicious secret. I suspect that most 22 year olds don't even know there is such a time as 4am, unless it coincides with the time they get home from a party. (I was never what you would call a heavy partier.) I marvelled that here were these lovely, quiet early morning hours, just waiting for someone to steal them. I alone knew their secret.

I am no longer 22, and 4 am is no longer a friend I visit with often. Still, this morning my eyes opened at 7 am in total clarity, that instant transformation between slumber and wakefulness. And I quietly padded to the kitchen of our house to make coffee. And I curled up on the couch. And I read my book.

And soon, my love will slowly begin to waken from his own night's rest, and then our "real" day will begin.

But once more, I celebrate the hours I have stolen.