A Woman Waiting For Morning

// originally posted on Sheridan’s Junk Drawer 11.21.2025 shared on Sheridan's Medium Channel published on Women Who Write

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I woke to the windows beaded in dew,

the world outside fogged soft,

the sun trying —politely, stubbornly —

to thread itself through the glass

and pull me back into the day,

a day that still feels like a room

I’m learning to live in.

My iced tea waited in its crystal glass,

the one with the tiny bite missing from the rim —

where I dropped it last spring and refused to let it die.

A swirl of sweet cream and vanilla rose to the top,

curling into the morning like a quiet invitation.

Shadow padded down the hall, nails tapping,

his gold chain chiming against his tag

as he lowered his head and pressed his forehead to my thigh —

asking, in his language, to be held, to be cared for.

Dino circled behind us, breath loud and eager,

ready to wrestle the morning into submission.

It hit me then — how many states I’ve lived in with these boys,

how many borders we’ve crossed together.

One, two, three, four, five homes —

we’ve crossed borders like pages in a book,

the narrator constantly rewriting us.

Deserts, rainstorms, mountains, midnight highways —

always their eyes in the rearview,the only constant I’ve ever had.

I remember the night in the storage unit —

my breath visible in the cold,

boxes stacked with pieces of my life

I have yet to write about.

I opened one, found something that always traveled with me.

I lifted out the red silk gown

I’ve carried to every trip, every holiday,

waiting for a moment that never came.

I held it up to the light,

wondering if I should take it with me one more time.

I didn’t.

I folded it back into the box,

thinking maybe some moments arrive

only when the room is ready.

Those nights on borrowed couches and guest beds —

God, the ceiling fans humming,

the soft thrum of another family’s refrigerator,

the quiet of someone else’s house settling around me.

I lived out of a single carry-on,

my boys from theirs — robes, bandanas,

their ridiculous little accessories

that made each unfamiliar room feel,

just for a moment, like it could be mine.

I placed my shoes neatly by the door,

keys aligned on the nightstand,

pretending routine could anchor me.

Pretending someone might come looking.

I catch myself setting out two glasses,

like my hands know something my mind hasn’t caught up to.

Not on purpose — just muscle memory for a future

my body seems to know before I do.

One for me, and one for whoever’s meant to arrive.

I’ve started wearing perfume

before grocery runs,

letting my hair fall the way men tend to notice

when they’re truly paying attention.

I don’t know his name,but I know the shape of him —

the kind of man whose footsteps

settle a room before he speaks.

A laugh with weight to it,

a touch that feels sure, not startled,

and a quiet gravity that slips into my life

the way fog slips under morning light —

the kind of presence a home readies itself for

long before the person walks through the door.

The other day, I found myself painting —

a sure sign the noise outside me

had finally lowered enough for me to hear my own breath.

I can be in a room full of peopleand still be untouched by it,

solitude blooming around me like a second skin.

The light fell across the canvas just right,

recognizing a version of methat’s only there when I’m quietly whole —

a version with room enough for someone else.

There was a second toothbrush in my cart

at Target last week.

For no reason.

Or maybe for the oldest reason of all:

my body knows something I don’t.

Tonight, I’m lighting a candle

and locking my door.

I’m turning my phone face-down

on the table.

I’m brushing my hair as a ritual,

whispering a quiet hello

to the life walking toward me.

Maybe I’ve been making room for him

without noticing.

Somewhere, he’s finishing his day,

and he has no idea

how close he isto becoming the answer

to a question I stopped asking.

And if anyone insists

this poem is about him —

that’s simply coincidence.

s.g