Start of my day.

I see the sky lighten up over the tower at Bethesda. I can peek out one of two windows at night and catch the MEDEVAC helicopters roaring in with a life in danger.

And I can hear him sleep. His body tries so hard to rest, but it has yet to be consistently fruitful. He snores, turns, and slides his arm onto me. It isn't until the day is about to begin that he finally reaches some type of meaningful slumber. He steals a few hours before I open the curtains and take the covers away. If I could, I would let him slumber all morning so he could feel better in the afternoon.

But he still holds me tightly, every morning, and fights his groggy mind to tell me sweet things or give me something funny. And I'll take it, every time.