Rising and Shining − 20 August, 1996

I wake up at six every morning. I'm tired and unwilling to get out of bed, but the curtains burn with sunlight, and the promises of a new day whisper to me in cold tongues from a cracked window behind them. I can hear the television speaking to no one in the living room.

I pull on my clothes with half-lidded eyes, slipping on shoes and agonizingly tying laces. Sleepiness pulls at my muscles, imploring, begging me to climb back into bed and sleep for just ten more minutes. Five even. It's painful almost, this exhaustion that clings to me like a shirt that doesn't fit.

The sun marches ever upward, its increasing intesity telling me my time is almost up. Soon, I'll have to throw on my backpack and run down the stairs to catch my bus. With the kitchen table top hard and cold beneath my elbows, I spoon another mound of Cheerios lazily into my mouth.

Third grade begins today.