'Morningtide' by Alex Otto

Mama hoarded sunrises. Big ones, little ones, blood-red ones, lumpy cloud ones that hung like our stucco ceiling. She just stuffed them into her purse when she thought no one was looking, but I always saw. She’d look left and right, then jam handfuls of rays deep into her brown leather satchel the same way Grandma used to sneak Sweet ’N’ Low packets from King’s Diner. Once in a while she’d drop a golden stream into my outstretched hands until it dripped like honey between my fingers, and two hours later I’d still be licking its jelly off my thumbnail. On holidays my sister and I would get bubble-gum-pink cotton-candy gleams. We’d take a pinch and blow them into the wind like dandelion fluff, hoping they’d seed and grow sunbeams on our lawn. Sometimes we’d go weeks with just rain and clouds and stormy dawns, but Mama always had enough sunshine tucked away to get us by. We’d sit on the porch swing on the stone patio and we’d stare into the grey abyss until Mama came along with a sly smile and handed each of us a boxed-mac-and-cheese-orange streak — comfort sunrise at its best.