I'm lying under the covers waiting for the alarm to ring.
I'm listening to the birds begin to sing.
We're all wondering what the day will bring.
It's that twilight moment, not just between darkness and light, but between not travelling and travelling, between not knowing and knowing. The duvet still feels comforting and warm as I await the moment when the day must begin. I'm thinking about all that will happen, the things we must do, the places we will see, the great distance we will travel.
I'm worrying whether I've packed everything I need, whether the taxi will come on time, whether our attempt to find our own way through Terminal Five will end in disaster as we fail to find breakfast, or miss our flight. I'm worrying what I will do for seven hours in the air. I'm worrying whether assistance will be provided at the other end if we reject it at Heathrow, and if they will try to force us into wheelchairs. I'm worrying about the cane, and whether it can ever be a sensible substitute for a guide dog when visiting such a busy city.
But I'm also excited, so very very excited. I'm looking forward to being at the airport, to flying across the Atlantic for the first time in my life, to our arrival somewhere new to us, to finding our way alone, to our hotel and dinner and the sights, sounds and other senses of New York.
The dawn chorus reminds me how uncertain the day could be, but also oh how wonderful.