It’s 4am. I’m awake. I’m cold, I’m restless. My mind is working like a navvy, churning, burning kilojoules as it labours through the what-ifs, the maybes, the wherefores, the no-ways. In those dark hours, every bad thing that has ever happened to me, to the world, slips frame-by-frame through my memory banks. Every bad thing that could ever happen to my children, to the world, clanks through my imagination in heavy boots.
“I should get up, write things down,” I think.
“Oh God, it’s 4.03, I have to get up in three hours.”
My muscles clench, my toes curl. My eyelashes are entwined with my brows, so open are my eyes. Every noise outside is magnified. Every creak indoors enhanced. Somewhere, in another room, a child coughs. I freeze, waiting for further cries. Nothing. And yet I lie stiff, ready for action, thoughts in turmoil.
And then, I see it. Sliding under the bedroom door, slipping through the cracks in the venetians.
A new day.
The sun, she always rises. As long as she continues to do so, there is always hope.
I sigh. I roll over. I drift back to sleep.
Mum was right. Everything does look better in the morning.
I’m joining in with Eden’s Fresh Horses. Just because I can. You should too.