When the Morning Won’t Wait

The morning started before you were ready for it.

You’ve been moving since your feet hit the floor — the lunches, the backpack, the thing you almost forgot and then remembered at the last moment. The kitchen still holds last night in it. You’ve been working around that too.

Your child is at the table, still in pajamas.

The cereal bowl is mostly untouched. One sock is on. The other is somewhere.

You’ve already said it once — gently, then with more edge than you meant. The response was slow. Not defiant. Just slow.

The clock on the microwave reads 7:43.

The bus comes at 8:05.

You set the remaining lunch items on the counter and turn toward the table.

Your child looks up at you.

There is still time — but not much of it.