I'm sitting on the couch, clutching my coffee with the lights off. The sky is completely black. The branches and their unfallen leaves blend into the shadows. The darkness is a sheet over the house.
I zone out the window, sleep still stuck in the corners of my eyes. At the top of every inhale I pause, imagining a small spark within me -- the North Star -- glowing a degree brighter with every cycle of my breath. A few silent moments pass. The sky warms from black to a dark blue, revealing individual branches, witnesses waiting for the sun's grand entrance. I'm waiting, too.
It happens every day. The sun comes up. I breathe. Events that are entirely explainable -- the turn of the earth, the expansion of my lungs. But right now, toeing the line between night and day, sleep and waking, still and sound, I see myself in the middle of a miracle. At the center of the world.
The sun is over the horizon now, an orange ball just hovering there. Where are the strings that hold it in place? There's a warmth in my chest, too -- something I didn't see before.
The day has begun.
I give thanks to her -- to the sun.
