When I wake up you are still twisted in dreams so I get up and pad across out of the room to the kitchen.

I make coffee and mix it with the soy milk you say is better for you and the tasteless protein powder you say helps your joints creak less.

I place it on the red tray with a glass of cold, clear, water, a napkin, and a bowl of cut strawberries.

Then I go back to the room careful not to let in the dog who will jump on the bed with wagging tail to lick your face if she gets past me.

I lay on the edge of the bed and look for signs of waking while trying to clock my own internal needs.

Is making love a possibility? (Oh, I do love to make you moan — I miss those easy days of sweet warmth and caresses.) Is today just a holding you day?

I can’t tell so I go back to the kitchen and start laying out the breakfast for the boys: Turkey bacon, fresh cut mango, halved strawberries, a bagel if we have it, eggs if I feel ambitious.

Then I sit down here to write. About lost moments. And feelings that I don’t understand yet. And love I wish I could express better.

But the breakfasts are good. And when you come out a bit later and you kiss me with a peck and say “Thank you. That was nice.”

And that is a good thing. A sweet thing. And how I love now.