Lately I wake up too much in mind of the day's tasks. There used to be a sprightliness with how I went about my mornings, especially when I was up there with you. I'd awaken and sit upright on the bed and stare out through the hole of the blackout curtains, seeking sunlight. I'd listen for the sound of passing cars or the wind. That I could be attuned with how quiet it was seems so unfamiliar a habit to me nowadays.

When I was a kid, I'd go for walks at night, long after my mother and father and sister had gone to bed. As far as I was aware, none of them had known this, or perhaps they did and simply didn't care enough to reprimand me. There was at first a part of me that felt this almost prurient kind of glee at the idea that I was being mischievous in my own way. But for the most part I went for these walks to take in the breeze coming from the water while avoiding other people.

I'd told you — it felt like that whenever we'd walk along the lake. The tall trees would hide the moonlight and I thought of the pier from my childhood. I'd sit on a log far from any lamps along the boardwalk, like I was some castaway resting on flotsam. I'd simply close my eyes and listen for the pull of the tide.

I go for a walk nowadays and it's never in the same spirit. I think too much of how I should rather sleep early. I think too much about all that needs to be done.