For the Sun to Rise

His departure today took place in the dark. First my alarm, then his, and his fumbling through drawers as though in a rush, even though the alarms had been set with time to spare, even though I knew he hadn’t slept.

Several times in the night I had woken, and he had hugged me and whispered that he loved me. Each time, I said it back. Now as he left the room to shower, I lay in bed in my pyjamas and felt naked.

I anticipated the four weeks that would follow. Played them out in my head. First the phone calls and text messages from three different airports, his boredom, the frustration of delays and cold airport food. His arrival in Turkey and the last internal flight, the three-hour minibus journey to the shipyard. The same hotel as last time, and every morning crossing the gangway, changing into his overalls and safety boots, putting his own clothes into the locker, the twelve-hour shift doing something, what I can never quite fathom, with annulars and valves and rams, and every night ending in the snack bar at the port, sending me photos of grilled chicken and cups of Turkish tea. And every night I would attach love hearts to these photos.

In the kitchen, I turned on the coffee machine and warmed the cups, listening next door, to the drumming of water on the shower tray and to the extractor fan, aware that these things were transient, fleeting, and like everything else this morning would soon end.

It was still dark when we sat together at the kitchen table, the ceiling light turning the empty window into another room, where another couple sat drinking coffee, their silence more obvious than ours.

We hugged a last time, said I love you a last time, and I watched at the window as his rear lights made slow progress up the hill – this part not transient, not fleeting.

I lingered at the sink. I lingered, unsure what to do next. There were several things that would usually take place around this time. I could wash the cups. I could feed the dogs. I could shower. None of these seemed appropriate. I thought about writing this, but didn’t. I went back to bed and pulled the sheets up to my chin.

*

I’m sorry that I lied. Drinking our coffee, I told him that it would be light soon and that he wouldn’t have to leave in the dark, that I had been up at this same hour recently and remembered that it hadn’t taken long for the sun to rise. But the day I was referring to was some weeks ago, and probably it hadn’t been as early. At any rate, it was a good hour after his departure that light crept under the bedroom blind.