I woke up early today, earlier than I wanted to.
The alarm went off in the dark, and for a moment I thought I’d missed something.
The room felt like night —
the kind of night that clings to your skin and makes you want to stay put.
I sat on the edge of the bed and listened.
The house was quiet.
Even the floorboards stayed still, as if they knew it was too soon for sound.
I pulled on my work clothes and felt how the air had changed — cooler now, and somehow thinner.
The days are shrinking.
I can see it in the tired light outside my window,
in the way the sky takes its time to wake.
The sun didn’t come with me this morning.
I left before it had the chance.
On the way to work, I watched the horizon turn from black to blue, then to a soft pale gold.
It felt like watching the earth take a long, slow breath.
And for a moment, I felt lucky —
lucky to be awake, lucky to see this quiet part of the day most people miss.
But there was something else there too —
something small and aching.
Every year, when the days grow shorter, I feel it.
Time passing, but not just time — moments I can’t get back.
My son is growing, my hair turning silver,
the seasons spinning faster than they used to.
There’s no stopping it.
Maybe that’s why mornings like this matter.
They remind me to notice the sound of the coffee being poured,
the cool of the doorknob,
the way the first light falls across the road.
They remind me to hold on —
not to the summer, not to the sunlight,
but to the simple fact that I was here to see it.
And tomorrow, I’ll wake up and see it again.
A little darker, maybe, but no less beautiful.
The CJBuzz 