I remember running into the prayer room for a few seconds before rushing out to school. My mother would remind me ever so often, but after some time (4th or 5th grade?), she didn't have to. It had become an unavoidable part of the morning routine, an activity that didn't need a lot of thought or dedication or emotion or reluctance; like brushing teeth, it was just something that had to be done. A vague discomfiture would manage to linger through the day when it wasn't. I remembered this the past two mornings, not fully awake, about to get out into the crisp eastern light, cloudy sky, and hint of fog, like winter at home (well, everything except the temperature and snow, that is), feeling the tiniest compulsion to pop into a little room (the one that doesn't exist in here) and pray -- and pausing the tiniest bit as I put on my shoes, like I would sometimes, because: have I prayed or not? if I haven't, I'll have to take my shoes off, and I'm late already, or perhaps I can just pray from outside the door wearing the shoes, but I really may as well pray now before I put my shoes on, even if it's the second time.