Mourning Routine

by ShivaRJoyce

I was always the one to wake first. Some early, ungodly hour. It wasn’t because I was a so-called morning person but more that I loathed sleep for robbing me of my day and time.

Some mornings the air still had a frosty chill to it that hadn’t been there the evening before. Boiling water on the gas camper stove, I would make enough for the thermos, brew my first cup of coffee and leave enough in the saucepan to throw two eggs into for brekky.

I would sit and sup the coffee as the eggs boiled, then return to the tent and throwing the sleeping bag over myself, go back to whatever I had been reading before I went to sleep.

Sometimes my bustling around, combined with the coffee smells would wake you up and you’d throw one cyclops eye open as though you were taking in what I was at, but mostly still lost asleep. Other times nothing would wake you. Then, of course there were the mornings that both eyes would stay shut but two hands would find their way out of your sleeping bag and into mine dragging me over like some great kraken waking to find something worthy of devouring.

Waking before you, afforded me, the simple pleasure of watching you sleep. Which may seem odd enough to those who slept as deep and effortlessly as you, but for me it was something I took in with almost clinical intrigue. I grew to know your patterns well. Every dream twitch amused me and sometimes I couldn’t help but run a finger down your nose or some similar – no doubt annoying – small touch, to see a reaction. I wondered how it changed your dreamscape. I wondered where you were.

These days, when I wake there is no wondering about where you are, I know the exact location, I know the depth and the weight of what covers you, the colours and texture of the dirt. And I know that no touch from me, no matter how irritating or intrusive, will stir you from sleep.

These days the mornings, much like the rest of the hours in the day, are not worth the waking.

Yet awake I do. Still at the same early hour though with none of the interest in what the day holds. I no longer bother with food in the morning. I dress and make my way to work in the road-side fuel store and shop, where if I see more than four faces in a week, it has been a busy week. I eat when I must. I close up and sleep. That much has changed. Sleep overcomes me now with ease. I no longer rail against it for robbing me of my day and time, welcoming unconsciousness, feeling in it, somehow closer to you.

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ShivaRJoyce is an Irish-based writer who hails from the Antipodes and has worked across many fields, education, asylum seeker & refugee supports, inclusion and arts.

Shiva’s writing focus is to create freedom narratives and fantastical tales for young people, alongside poetry and prose that allows adults to explore the periphery of their realities. She develops narrative spaces where those from minority and diverse backgrounds feel heard & reflected, having faced her own barriers at the intersection of race & gender.

She also supports ethical businesses, arts & charity organisations and individuals to develop their profile and visibility through bespoke storytelling and curation of their social media narrative development. Follow her online.
website: https://shivarjoyce.wordpress.com/
twitter: @ShivaRJoyce
kofi-me: https://ko-fi.com/shivarjoyce