I stir. With eyes closed, I can tell it’s still dark out. I turn over, but it’s no use. I’m awake. The Sun still has its night cap on. It gets to hit the snooze button and gather the horizon around its shoulders while I rise. Groggily, I wonder, When did the Sun get to be such a layabout?
As I stagger into the bathroom for a brush and a swish, I realize I am envious of the Sun.
I put on my sneakers and eat a banana because I once heard a pro tennis player say it prevents cramps and open my door to the dim. Sol hasn’t even stretched yet. It still lies curled somewhere under the Blue Ridge oblivious to the fact that the day has begun.
I run, jogging my meager circuit. It is nothing to the Sun’s endless, tireless loops. That heavenly body never slows down or staggers uphill. It never feels its chest constrict and its breath wheeze. Okay, I take that last part back. I have witnessed sun flares which suggests that Sol does tire itself out or at the least has a bad back. I chuckle. I suppose after a few billion years, I can’t really begrudge a little ache… especially if he runs his lap at 828,000 kilometers per hour and it still requires a full year to finish a single lap… and never once takes a recovery day.
I return. I imagine a change, a bit of color swirling, the sun laying out its palette for the sunrise, but no, it’s just the sweat dripping into my eyes. It’s still dark.
As I begin the day’s work, checking emails, organizing schedules, writing, or editing some project, It’s gloomy. A few distant stars sparkle, but mostly what I see out my windows is haze. The Sun still shows no sign of stirring.
Sol needs a jogging buddy. It needs a musical collaborator. It needs a straight man to set up its jokes. That solo orbit has got to wear you down. Suns aren’t meant to be lone wolves. They’re meant to be pack animals, ranging the celestial hills and forests, hunting and playing, nipping and biting, and finding comfort in each other’s company as they light the way.
Maybe that’s why the Sun is always running. Maybe it’s running through the neighborhood, looking for a lost buddy and hoping to have someone to share a story with? Maybe the Sun feels uncomfortable going to the movies or a pub alone? Who is the Sun’s wingman, its BFF? Jupiter? Pluto?
Pluto never calls. Saturn never texts back. What an ungrateful lot of children we are.
The Sun rises. The sky fills with oranges, reds, pinks, and brilliance. It lays groceries on the table, feeding us heat and light as nourishment. It doesn’t go bargain basement either. No fillers. The Sun only provides organic sustenance. Then, with no huff or complaint it continues its jog, rising at a steady clip with no one to talk to and no co-worker to laugh with. I walk to the refrigerator wondering how to send the Sun a care package.
How long has it been since the Sun had a coffee break?
The next morning, I wake up. It’s still dark and I groan, but then I catch myself and get up quietly. I mouth a thank you careful not to disturb the sun. Sol’s still sleeping and needs his rest.
