The first thing in the morning is not
coffee, or tea; it is not finding my slippers and robe
or petting the dog, or stumbling to the bathroom,
eyes still bleared with sleep.
The first thing is not throwing back the blankets
or looking out the window to see
what kind of day we might have ahead.
The first thing, each time I open my eyes,
is remembering you are not with us anymore,
that your bright brown eyes greet no morning sun,
that your laughter is forever stilled.
The first thing is checking my heart
to be sure it can manage one more day,
and that I can find my way to joy
one more time.