Waking Alone

My wife knows many mornings when I climb out of bed early. Before the sun, before the birds, and gather my camera, tripod and film. She hears my footsteps descend the stairs, the tap running a glass of water, the rumble of the garage door. I’ve left her for the morning.

“Will you be taking photos tomorrow morning?”

“I’m happy that you can grow your portfolio.”

“If I don’t sleep, could you be extra quiet?”

“I miss waking up with you.”

Some of those mornings I find myself standing in the cold river, the water coursing around my legs, around the tripod. And a scene like this emerges from the dark.

And at home, in the same grey light, she rolls over to my side of the bed, the cold sheets pulling the sleep heat from her.