The Weight of Morning

Six in the morning, a room in an unfamiliar city. Light through the curtains breaks on the glass on the desk. She was still recalling her mother's voice. Three missed calls last night. The call that came again this morning, she didn't answer. Cold air wraps around her ankles. Taking the milk from the fridge, she thinks of the warmth in the message from a moment ago. The sentence, "Have you eaten." The screen had already gone dark. Outside the window, strangers walk past. She waits for the sun to climb a little higher before making the call. It's still too early, and she isn't ready to say she's sorry.