We have an agreement, my brother and I, a simple safety in case one of us oversleeps our alarm.  At 6:55 a.m., if we can’t see a tiny bit of light escaping under their bedroom door, or  we can’t hear the rustle of hurried limbs scrambling to throw on a piece of clothing, we will knock to make sure the other one has gotten up.

I enjoy my sleep, one alarm won’t wake me, over forty-five minutes a series of five alarms will go off.  Starting at 6:15, and snoozing till 6:30 I then start a ten-minute timer, with every annoying ring that wakes me up I fall back into a less and less deep trance.  Just a few more minutes.  With two more little timers, I relax my eyes until… knock, knock, knock.  “I’m up,” I say through gritted teeth.  The sound of heavy feet sliding across the wood floor adds to my frustration.  Looking at my phone thirty-two seconds remain on my last timer.  The clock only reads 6:53,  I have two more minutes! 

Angrily throwing my head one more time back against my welcoming pillow, I throw the covers off of me with a sigh as I step towards my closet.  Why can’t they just respect the clock? My fragile sleep schedule is not one to mess with.  An abrupt awakening leaves me cold and provoked, my day begins with an unpleasant starting.

Always wrapped up in my mind I never stop to think, how is he feeling today?  Does he have to get to school early?  Maybe the weather’s not good and he is planning ahead.  His solicitous act may have saved us from arriving late to school.

Although I value my sleep, I value him more.  Even if it gets under my skin he is simply trying to help.  Without the little things to make me angry, how would I know he cares?   It is simple, I wouldn’t,  and when my brother is gone—overseas—he won’t get the pleasant awakenings, I shouldn’t take for granted the ones he gives me.