I’ve watch the sunrise so many mornings, that it’s like listening to an old song. It reminds me I’m alive — good or bad — I’m alive and it really doesn’t matter what day it is. Every day is mostly the same as the last. I really don’t care if it’s Saturday or Monday. It’s a voiceless melody that speaks to me. It tells me it’s a new day, were anything can happen before I see it the next morning. It makes no promises as to whether it will be favorable. Still, there are many mornings were I wonder if this might be the last day the sun might shine. In many ways, this would not be at all unwelcome.
There’s something calming, yet ominous, about a sunrise. Am I right? The night sky turns to an eerie shade of dark purple just before it seems to it wash it with orange and red. Really, this is the best the sun can do (and it goes by so quickly) before the yellow rays overtake out the vibrant colors.
Most of the year Ryan is up before the sun. Hell, we laugh that it’s such a late-riser. Every morning I wake Ryan with the simple message, “it’s going to be a great day” and “we have a busy day ahead”.
No doubt, it will be busy. The next fifteen hours be filled with activities and care. But sometimes I feel like I’m fibbing by telling him it’ll be great. Fact is, I really don’t know what the day will bring for him.
What if it’s awful?
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