02/05/2026
Morning Routine
By Bradley Holt
He rises before orange lights the sky,
Pulls weathered work boots onto tired feet,
Kisses her softly so she doesn't stir,
Gears up for another long day in the heat.
He finds her love note while packing his lunch,
Behind the chocolate swirl snack packs.
A smile slowly creases his face—
The crooked one that she loves best.
He climbs up into ol’ Betsy;
She cranks on the second try,
Leading to a happy fist pump.
The day is starting out just right.
He may be a little late to work,
But he had to write her a reply,
Winking at her photo on the dash,
Transmission easing into drive.
She stirs then stretches lazily,
Curling her toes under the quilt,
Pulling his pillow to her,
Breathing in his scent.
She hears a familiar pitter-patter,
Fat drops of rain on an old tin roof.
She burrows a little deeper—
Goose down and warm wool.
Tiny feet raindancing on her bladder
Force her up instead.
One hand on the small of her back,
She wobbles from the bed.
“He's lucky he's so darn cute,” she mutters,
Wiping beard clippings from the sink.
She smiles despite herself—
Proof love doesn't teach a man to clean.
But then she sees a sweet little note
When she opens up the fridge:
Crudely drawn heart, horrendous handwriting.
Oh my God, he's perfect.
A crash of thunder rips through the sky,
Rattling the thin walls of their trailer.
She cups her belly without thinking,
Frozen solid until the sound passes.
She makes her way to the window,
Lifts a slat with one finger.
The weather is turning fast.
She chews her lip, forehead wrinkled.
Who's that pulling in?
She doesn't recognize the black sedan.
A man and woman get out with umbrellas,
Dressed sharply in browns and tans.
She moves over to the door,
Grabbing a broom by the handle.
Eases her eye to the peep hole,
Spying their arrival.
A squawk cracks over a radio,
Cutting their knock short.
Fragments crackling through the static.
Her ear pressed to the door
“Have you spoken with the widow?”
Her eyes flutter open.
She's lying on her back.
The linoleum is cool to her face
As she tries to catch her breath.
Red and white lights flash.
Paramedics speak urgently.
Trembling hands clinging to
His love letter—
Her belly.
©️Bradley Holt 2026
