Waking

The edge of morning slides through the crack in my eyelids, sharp and painful like the knife it is. I struggle to stay wrapped in sleep, but the pain wins. I pry my eyes open and, half blind with one hand over my eyes and one touching the wall, I stumble into the bathroom. I manage to hit most of what I aim for and then I seek to replace what I just drained. My head throbs in an irregular beat. The first glass of water helps, but not much. I drink another. I splash the third cup on my face and wake up a little more. Towel, fourth cup (drinking again). I cannot quite finish it and take that as a good sign I might be making progress against my dehydration. My head throbs a little less and that's about all I can hope for this morning. It is, frankly, more than I expected. Today is not going to be a good day. "My head throbs a little less," is as much reason for joy as I'm going to get any time soon. This just may be the high point of my day.