When I wake and leave the bed, Peter Pan takes my place. He curls into the warm hollow that my shoulder makes there, his head on the pillow as mine had been.
“I have your breakfast,” I tell him, and raise the bowl in which I carry his two eggs, sunny side up.
His eyes open just the tiniest bit.
They close again. And this final time, remain closed.
I sit on the bed beside him, place the bowl near to his nose and stroke his pearl white fur.
He sighs ... a soft snore, a dog’s purr, if you will.
“I don’t think I’m a morning person,” Peter Pan, in time, confides to me. “I just don’t.”
No buddy, I don’t believe you are.