Morning Snapshots of a Loving Husband

In the morning, when he leaves, he smells of coffee as he kisses me on the cheek. Barely awake, I see snapshots of him, a photo book of his morning. He wraps me in blankets which I have tangled into an incoherent mess in the night. I look up to see him moving the fan and closing the blinds so I can get a few more hours of sleep. He has already showered, he has already made coffee, he is all ready to go as he bends over me and whispers, "Hey, I'm heading to work," so I will know where he has gone when I wake.

I barely remember these moments. I only see them as fragments, still a dream. I do not thank him as he goes, I do not remember when he returns home, and yet, every morning he wakes to kiss me again.