Morning Glory

I hear her call for me. I barely open one eye enough to see it is 5:30. I stumble into her dark room using that same eye to guide me. It is burning, begging to be closed. When I peek over her crib, I see pure joy begin in her eyes and burst out through her toes. She gasps and kicks and kicks, much like a panting puppy wagging its tail. I nurse her, praying she'll think it's still the middle of the night and go back to sleep. No dice. I sit her on the floor next to her toy basket and watch her take out one toy at a time, examine it with furrowed brows, and stuff it into her mouth. I doze off. She alerts me that she is quite done playing alone, so I start making breakfast. She licks her lips when she sees the oatmeal box and bananas--smart little thing. After the last bite, I wipe her sticky cheeks with a warm rag and we return to the floor. I drift in and out of consciousness while I mindlessly hand her toys. She yells. I hand her a new one. I wake suddenly to little hands patting my face and pinching my nose. I notice the view from the window is no longer black, but light-grey with a pink glaze. The sun is waking up; we go outside to greet it. It's surprisingly warm and we sit on a cheap, black camping chair on the edge of our street. We peer into the hospital parking lot as the night-shift workers leave and the morning crew shows up. They smile and wave as she sits on my lap and holds her feet. She follows every car with her giant blue eyes, turning her head from right to left, left to right. Her tangled curls lift and fall in the light breeze and occasionally she looks up at me, making sure I'm still there. I am. I'm always there.