ALBA

I’m awake early today. Next to me, she sleeps, still unaware of the bright phone in the darkened room, or the gentle tapping of my fingers on the screen.

I don’t know why I’m awake. I was hot and half-lucid for a while, trying to remember the Italian word for ‘dawn’. No matter how I turned, my brain whirred with ‘Aurora?’ no, ‘ambra?’, ‘alambra?’ No.

Alba. Should have known it. All’alba vinceró! sang Pavarotti in the 90s. In the dawn I will win. He should know.

The kitchen situation rolls on. I was thinking yesterday about how practical I’ve been. I’ve tried my best to look after Sammy through a situation that’s poked her worst fears. I’ve been assertive with the insurers and the contractors they’ve chosen for us, and I’ve tried to manage myself too, even though this heavy thing would have crumpled me a few years ago. There’s been a level-headedness about me that has surprised even me, I’d say, a sort of strength forged out of necessity. Well. I believe God gave me that, actually, and I just took hold of it.

The dawn (the alba if you will) is grey today. Not the autumn sunlight that paints gold on the ceiling, but the murky light slowly replacing the thick, inky darkness. Birds are singing out there - I almost wish I were smart enough to tell you which ones, but it’s a happy chorus of chirps and warbles nevertheless.

All’alba vinceró! In the opera it’s sung by someone who knows that as the sun rises he will win the hand of the princess he loves. Hope surges with the coming of a new day, triumph is nearing as the strings swell and the heart pounds in his chest.

Sammy sleeps. She’s safe next to me, her rhythmic breathing making the duvet rise and fall so gently. There’s a calm content about her this morning. It’s okay to say I’ve done a good job, I think. Some nights might be scratchy and hot and difficult, and my brain might race through pointless quests like remembering the Italian word for ‘dawn’. But here I am, tired and happy. All’alba vinceró, after all.