Another life.
I get up every morning for work at 4:50. I feed my cat, get dressed and go into the kitchen, where I put on water to boil for tea. I scramble two eggs, sometimes adding dill. At this point, Buddy Holly DangerCat is weaving himself around my ankles, purring, trying to lure me back to bed; but once I start sipping my tea I’ve already glanced out the window and seen our neighbor, an elderly gentleman also preparing his breakfast just yards away. It’s then that I no longer feel like a sideshow freak for waking up when it is still dark and the crickets are still chirping, while my friends whose invitation I declined to the drive-in the night before still sleep. I know the truth: that the man next door and I share a secret -- to longevity or maybe just regarding the importance of a good breakfast. Not sure about that one, but by the time I leave the house about ten minutes later, I’m feeling good and right instead of dislocated.

When we pass each other at other times during the day -- getting the mail or when I get back from running with my roommates’ dog -- the man and I nod and smile but we never say anything about our mornings. I don’t know why. It seems like it’s breaking some code that I don’t know all about yet because I’m still young. I’m learning.