Lily is curled tight in bed and awakens from a dream. She unspools her limbs while easing her feet to the floor.

Shards of images infuse her head, but she does not recall the dream of flight. She does not recall her joy. The clock says three.

The coldness of the tiles awaken her that much more. She pulls her robe onto her shoulders and walks to a door.

Lily sits at the table and gazes at the lights. They lie just beyond her reflection and appease her.

She sips the milk she has warmed, like many nights before, with hope of easing back to sleep and to the dreams she does not recall.

Some of us with our first moments of lost slumber roll over seeking a few minutes more, others reach under the sheets to engage quick movements of their hands,  others with grazing fingers reach for reprieve from the assault of their alarms.

Marlena reaches for her mirror and examines the lines upon her face. She studies them intently like an explorer poring over a topographic map .

The deep creases do not inspire Marlena’s concern, it is her daily fascination, an evolving ritual begun years before. She surveys each inch of this familiar surface, working systematically, outwards from the bridge of her nose in a path of clockwise turns.

Each moment of her mornings is a celebration while she thinks, “How have I lasted this long?”