Morning

Light was streaming in around the sides of the pulled curtain, I was certain it was late morning, I'd slept so soundly. The bed was crowded, and the wretched hangover foiled my attempts at sneaking out silently; no one stirred. By the time I realized it was only 6:30, I was already up, it seemed useless to go back to bed. I put on my clothes, my coat, rubbed my eyes and stumbled out. The air was still, the morning cool but light, that special light that mornings have and you know it's spring. I stood on the platform and looked at the football field across the road. Soon, they will come here to play. Soon, the trees will be green. Soon. The train rolled in, rocked quietly back to the city, and the way the sun streamed over the Stockholm inlet, over the churches in Old Town and bright-eyed seagulls made me think We are going to be okay. You know the change when it's come. You lie panting on the shoreline, the great waves receding, merely lapping at your feet now where they were drowning you before. Someone has cleared the debris in the courtyard; little crocus flowers appear out of the rubble, whisper good morning.

You breathe.