This morning I just stared out the window. It was still dark when I woke up, so I walked to the kitchen. I sat down at the counter, and I laid my porcelain cup down. I watched the sun come up through the window, me and my cup of coffee, just looking out the window and thinking.
I thought about my son; about the men I did not marry; about the one I did; about the things I’ve done; about the things I did not do.
A few birds chirped outside, even though it was still so dark.
I thought about things doctors have told me; I thought about something I sometimes think about doing.
The day was beginning outside, now, and the leaves and dirt and flowers and concrete were breathing new color.
I thought about whether or not I made the right decision. About how I probably did.
I did not wake up my son to tell him: “I love you.”
Or: “I live because you exist.”
Or: any of the other things I think when I am alone and thinking.
I did not wake him up, but I wanted to. I did want to.
