The Four Minutes

I've been awake at 6:30 without wanting to be,

my body refusing sleep,

and from the window I can see into their morning.

Every day the same:

they set the coffee mug on the porch railing,

white ceramic,

steam rising in the cold,

and they go back inside.

I started counting without meaning to.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi,

through the glass door

where their silhouette moves in the kitchen,

hands moving, doing something,

and then they come back.

Four minutes.

Exactly.

They pick up the mug—

it's cooled just enough,

I guess,

to drink without burning—

and they go back inside,

and the day starts for them,

and the day starts for me,

and I'm still here,

still awake,

still watching.

I don't know why I time it.

I don't know why I've marked it,

this ritual that has nothing to do with me.

But there's something about knowing

when someone will come back,

something about being able to predict

the exact moment

they will reappear,

that makes me feel less alone,

or more alone,

I can't decide which.

Four minutes.

The mug steams.

The silhouette moves.

They return.

And tomorrow at 6:30

I'll be awake again,

watching,

counting,

waiting for them to come back.