Then and Now

I am drinking a glass bottle of coke
before brushing my teeth,
still in bed under the white covers
while my father, who had already gone out
into the cold morning and seen something
that I absolutely had to see
sits on the other bed, dressed.
I whine that waking me so early is child abuse
The syrup of cold coke the whiteness of the covers
the absolute silliness and stillness
of being a self who is enough
returns on spring mornings
when I have left the window open and the room
grows cold overnight
and my arms feel especially bare
and my son has woken before me and elbows me,
puts sticky fingers in my hair and asks
why the sun rises in different places on different days.