5:57 AM

Sunshine illuminates the roof by the time I am settled on the porch chair. I salute the horizon with my coffee mug — in benediction or supplication, I’m not sure — and feel rewarded when Marvin’s golden pushbroom helmet gleams brightly. Sleep be damned, I resolve. I will absolutely do this again tomorrow.

 

5:56

The cushion is molded to my butt’s shape. Kevin had always run his hand suggestively over its curves, grin flashing. I grunt and sit down, careful not to slosh my cup.

 

5:55

I check my stopwatch. Seven minutes on the dot and I have time for my ten pushups. Another yawn and for thirty blessed seconds, there is no thinking, no remembering, just a reminder I should take cartilage supplements for my knees. I clamber to my feet, grab Marvin’s handle, and unlock the front door. The neighbor’s dog is barking at the papergirl on her bicycle.

 

5:54

My favorite cup has Marvin, the Menace from Mars, emblazoned on the front. Kevin had worked for NASA and anything space-related was a hit. “I hear you,” I grumble to the screaming teakettle. A heaping teaspoon of instant coffee, pour, and I wake a bit, just from the scent. Maybe I can do this.

 

5:53

The kettle’s making creaking noises. I am so tired. I could go back to bed? No. Back to the fridge for pills. This time I take out only my own blood pressure, maybe I’m finally used to being by myself. I need to flush his medications. Later… after a nap. Add a multivitamin. The routine of getting ready is reassuring.

 

5:52

Lyle, my big orange tabby, bumps my leg. No, I haven’t forgotten you, buddy. Check the fridge — you finished the turkey last night. To the closet then: the menu today is Signature Tuna. He digs in. I yawn.

 

5:50

I pad to the kitchen. Kevin always preferred percolated. He loved the process, patiently grinding beans, measuring precisely. I always joked an engineer might quantify coffee but couldn’t feel the soul of it. Me, I now subsist on instant and ramen. Two cups of water in the teakettle. Gas on. Oops, turn it down a speck.

 

5:49

Bathrobe: a Kevin-gift, with stars and comets. Slippers. I don’t need socks, spring has sprung. Has it already been a month since the accident in March? I stop at the thermostat, but decide I don’t need the heat.

 

5:48

My alarm sounds, and I shake my head to clear the dreams of screeching brakes and crunching steel. I’m not a morning person but I’m determined to do this in honor of Kevin. The timer is already set for 8 minutes and I tap Start. Then I Google “tomorrow’s sunrise.” Technically, it takes eight minutes and twenty seconds, so I subtract nine minutes and reset the alarm for 5:47. This week’s routine has been comforting: waking up just as the sun’s rays form, and being outside, feeling them, being warmed by them, when they reach the Earth eight-and-a-third minutes later. Good morning, Kevin, my loved, lost, astronomer.