The early morning sun poured through the large arching windows of my bedroom, caressing my cheek as it slowly coaxed me from the land of dreams back to reality.
Burrowing into the swathing of blankets surrounding me, I smiled sleepily to myself as I was reminded of the way my mami used to sit on the edge of my bed most mornings. I could almost feel the gentle press of her warm hand to my cheek and hear the patient words she would speak to try and convince me to get out of bed. It was the same thing every day.
My eyes stung as I thought about how she never seemed to grow weary of my nonsense when it came to waking up in the morning. I've always treasured my sleep, and could be rather difficult to rouse–– she knew that and still came for me faithfully each morning.
A soft chuckle bubbled up from my throat as the memory of how the patient supplications usually turned into pokes and prods to all of my ticklish spots–– all of which she knew well. She would tickle me and I would screech with laughter.
And that was how our mornings started from the time I was young until that very last morning–– the morning that started like any other. The morning we had no idea was going to be the last–– that I would have to wake up alone every morning after.
For the next 45 years, I woke up alone.