It's time to get up. I can tell as Mom goes through the same series of procrastinations every morning. She hides her head underneath the covers as if it will somehow slow the sun from cresting the hillside, wrapping around the buildings, glistening down the windowed streets and flowing through our glass, bringing in the new day on it's warm rays.
Mom covers her head and waits for the last possible moment to get up. I suspect the numbers on the clock will finally pry her eyes open with the promises of lateness and troubles for her.
Inigo is passed out-fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him. He's nested himself and mom pulls the covers, adjusting them around us as if she has more time. She doesn't.
I know she's awake behind her closed eyelids. I know they blanket her sight from the snoozed numbers on the clock. She seeks more time that has finally run out.
Mom sighs...and it's morning.
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