Mornings Have Things They Rescue

Every morning holds at least one small victory. On the day I slipped through the subway doors just before they closed, the very seat I wanted was still open in that car. Last night I'd only thought "tomorrow I'll spend the day differently" without acting on it, and it felt as if the world had quietly rescued me instead. Only half the office lights are on. Opening the drawer before making coffee, I find one instant coffee stick left over from last week. I decided to count today as lucky, for now. I still don't know how the last sentence of the email I sent last night came across, and while I don't know, the morning passes. At ten, people trickle in and trade stories of weather and lateness. One left an umbrella behind; another woke only three minutes late yet opens the door as gingerly as if arriving for an afternoon shift. We don't force comfort on any of it; we just laugh. That laughter feels like part of the work. Late-morning sunlight comes in the office window, and glints reflect off the roofs of passing cars. Reluctant to take my eyes off that view, I put off one reply a little. Whether today will be lighter than before I don't know, but that way I hold the day a little, first.