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The Gift of an Hour

I squinted at the clock whose hazy numbers two feet from the end of our bed neoned 8:00. Eight o’clock already.


It didn’t matter. I lowered my head to my pillow again. I needed to recoup my thoughts before touching my toes to the carpet or the day would be gone– a mental mess. I stretched my right leg over my body; I let go of my mind.

When I flung the covers seven minutes later, it was with purpose; the day would not be lost.

Only the clock. The clock whose red numbers I’d worked to unscramble moments ago, now read 7:07.

I felt hope rise. I scooted closer to the end of the bed until there was no mistaking the time.



I could not have appreciated it more if it’d come in a box with a bow. This gift.

This gift of an hour.


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