The morning I grew up was an early riser.
I felt the nudge on the side of my bed, heard a soft whisper, and knew that Mary had come to wake me. Seven minutes later I was brushing my hair in front if the mirror, studying my own bright eyes, thinking about the day ahead and wondering in a dozen different directions.
Mary left me for a moment, I never knew why, and I went I to the bathroom to brush my teeth. To an eight-year old the room was enormous, a wash of white tile studded with bronze fixtures, the pedestal sink almost unreachable, the mirror taking up half the room and reflecting my pink nightgown back impossibly tiny.