Sitting in the morning sun with a soft breeze tingling my rested cheeks, I would never see her turned up nose and freckled face. Her clear brown eyes are still buried in a dreamless sleep. I think about life, this time in the morning, and it's almost good.
I wake her sometimes, when the morning glory is too much for me to hold alone. "Come with me!", I sing, because the world is so big and we've seen so little.
But Tracy's bed is warm, safe. Her room is dark and womb-like. So I leave and the world is mine alone. I smile at the birds, the squirrels, the deer. The wind thrills me and the sun is my lover. The earth moves ever so slightly beneath my feet, and as I laugh, I wonder why Tracy refuses to be born.