The First Hour Is Different Now…

The First Hour Is Different Now…

The first hour of the day used to belong to him. Not in any official sense… he never signed anything. But try telling him that. He ran it like a small, furry dictator. There was a system. A routine. An expectation that I would rise, acknowledge his existence, and proceed in a manner that suited him, the escalation of presence.

A little kettle of a thing… boiling away quietly until I got up and did what was required. Morning had a rhythm. Not mine. His. And I followed it.
Now… the hour comes in quietly. Too quietly. No shuffle. No stare. No tiny supervisor making sure I didn’t get notions about lying in. And still… my body hasn’t caught up.

I wake. I listen. I half-expect him to be there, standing like a foreman at the end of the bed, ready to clock me in. There’s a moment, just a small one,
where everything is still the same… and then it isn’t.

Grief, it turns out, isn’t dramatic in the mornings. It doesn’t kick the door in. It doesn’t roar. It’s quieter than that. It’s the absence of a demanding little shit who used to run the place. The kettle still boils. The day still shows up with its expectations, as if nothing has changed.

And I get up. I move. I do what needs doing. But the first hour…it’s softer now. And heavier. No one is watching me. No one is insisting. No one is making sure I don’t drift too far into my own head.

I used to think he was a nuisance in the mornings. A bossy, stubborn, relentless little presence who refused to let me start the day on my own terms.

Turns out…he was the terms. So now my morning ritual is this:

Wake up.
Notice the quiet.
Miss the madness.
And carry that little kettle of love with me anyway.
Some mornings I’ll get it right.
Some mornings I’ll just get through.
Both count.

Mae🧡