The Way Morning Comes

This morning felt lighter.

The memoir, finally done. Off my hands, off my mind, and out in the world, no longer mine. Something written, worked on, and tweaked for the last six years—sometimes setting it aside for months when I couldn’t find the arc, and sometimes just tired of my own writing...

Waking up at 4 am like always—when it’s still dark and peaceful. Quiet.

Nothing had changed, really. The coffee was the same. The light of day hadn’t come in yet. The house held that early stillness, before anything begins—the part of the day I have always loved, even as a child.

Same routine with Texas—let him out, let him back in, fill his bowl with his breakfast.

Tell him what a good boy he is while he gets the rubs he loves.

Something in me wasn’t reaching for anything.

Not the next task.

Not the next thought.

Not even the next feeling.

I just stood there for a minute, holding a warm mug in both hands,

my gaze drifting out the window onto the lawn—where the wild turkeys, or a herd of deer, might be crossing.

A couple of days ago, I was pulling out of the East Machias Post Office, after mailing off a few copies of the first edition, and noticed a big red truck that looked just like Malcolm’s.

It caught me the way those things always do.

There have been so many moments like that—something in the world reflecting him back to me. A shape, a sound, a passing glimpse that feels familiar in a way I don’t try to explain.

When my heart was heavier, I would recognize them immediately as signs from him. Or maybe just my mind holding him so close that the world began to echo it back.

Either way, they’ve always felt like something gentle.

Something I don’t question.

This morning,

standing there in the quiet, with nothing pulling at me,

I realized those moments hadn’t disappeared.

They have just softened.

They didn’t arrive with weight anymore.

They arrived the same way the morning does at 4 am—

Quiet,

Peaceful.