The Early Shift

Five a.m., kitchen light, boots by the door. We never heard the alarm go off — just smelled the coffee burning low, your headlights backing down the drive through forty years of snow. You came home tired, never empty, asked about our day first, every time. We thought that's just what fathers did. Then we grew up and learned. Seventy years, and most of them on the early shift — the quiet kind of love that pays the lights. You never made a speech about it, you just showed up before sunrise. Happy birthday to the man who built it all before the rest of us opened our eyes. Your hands are maps of every job, the garden's yours now, rain or shine, you still beat everybody to the check like it's a finish line. The grandkids ride your shoulders, laughing — lightest work you've ever done. We thought that's just what fathers did. Nobody did it like you. Seventy years, and most of them on the early shift — the quiet kind of love that pays the lights. You never made a speech about it, you just showed up before sunrise. Happy birthday to the man who built it all before the rest of us opened our eyes. Sleep in tomorrow, Dad. You won't — you'll be up with the coffee at five. Some clocks can't be retired. Some men are the sunrise. Seventy years, and most of them on the early shift — the quiet kind of love that pays the lights. You never made a speech about it, you just showed up before sunrise. Happy birthday to the man who built it all before the rest of us opened our eyes. Five a.m., kitchen light — rest easy, old man. We're up.