I do not set an alarm in the mornings any more. It isn’t necessary. I know it is time to get up when:

• the birds are squeaking outside and the sky has lightened slightly.
• someone is wailing like a desolate baby, coming down the hall on silent feet.
• the names of politicians appear in my head. “Little Marco Rubio,” for instance. That’s a dead giveaway that I can’t stay in bed. “Fetterman.” If I think of the name of the current President, I get up, even if it’s 4:00 am.
• someone has jumped into my bed.
• I realize I might have to go to the bathroom.
• whiskers are gently tickling my nose and I have the disturbing sensation that someone is staring at me with huge, clear eyes from about two inches away.
• I want to know what the temperature is outside (3 degrees Fahrenheit)
• Someone strides down the side of bed and lands on the floor with a thump. I know he will come back wailing like a desperate baby, even though he is fed by a refrigerated feeder, on a timer, because he requires me to be nearby when he eats.
• I realize that all I have to do today, from here on, is decide to make every moment precious. This involves large thin porcelain teacups with flowers painted on them and maybe wind chimes. More wicker baskets. (Gesturing vaguely) you know what I mean.
• I try to remember what my dream was about, but it’s already disappearing. Something about moving to New York City with a friend. Manhattan is its usual shape that it takes in my dreams, something like a longer Mont St. Michel with a walled base.
• there are whiskers in my face again. Then the cat jumps off the bed again, with a louder thump.
• I really do have to go to the bathroom.
• I decide I’m going to ignore the news today. Really. This time for sure. This last realization tells me I am actually awake, so I get up.