Sunday Morning
It’s a cold morning, the kind that makes you want to
crawl right back to your bed. You think, as you gingerly make your way to the
kitchen and assemble your coffee. After hours of opening your eyes, staring out
the window, closing them again, getting lost in your dreams, waking up and
repeating the cycle.
Until you realize, this can get better.
Your morning can get even better than the comfort of a
mattress enveloping you; the rectangular consistency of soft cotton is like the
promise of an endless love. The thick woolly blanket, your mother stitched
years ago and made you pack in a suitcase that was already brimming with pieces
of your past. The beautiful flower petals, the leaves, the little red cherries
and every tiny detail your mother spent hours knitting, spread over you promise
protection. It offers a fierce protection, unfailing against the cold. Your
pillow with a picture of your favourite moment of city life captured; the one
you spotted the minute you stepped in the store.
The store which you found on a chat room for collectors,
which you printed out the directions to, the store you spend hours, winding
down several allies for. The same pillow case you purchased from the man with
brown spectacles that enlarges those gentle blue eyes, both traits which
reminded you of your grandfather, whom you encountered at the age of five, when
you slipped into a room out of sheer boredom.
All of these come together and keep you safe on this Sunday
morning. They give you a sense of relief and a feeling of safety. It instills
in you a feeling of peace and calm, despite the turbulent week you had up until
the night before. Your haven!
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, gently pulling you
out of your dazed morning face. Still shivering under your very long sweater
you stretch and pull down your porcelain coffee mug. The chipped one you have
been using for years. The same one your boyfriend bought you when you invited
him for lunch one day. Most of the text has faded and the insides have cracked
a little bit. But the handle is shaped just right for your long wobbly fingers.
The size perfect, not bottomless like a manhole and not minuscule like the
bottom of the test tube you held between your fingers in tenth grade. It is
just right, you think to yourself as you drop a spoon of sugar into your cup.
You lift the pot and pour down the beautiful concoction. The
colour is just the perfect shade of brown, with a little yellow on the edges,
like fog around water as it cascades down gracefully, your coffee make a splash
at the bottom your mug. You pause, set the pot down and stir in some of the
creamy milk. Feeling satisfied you speed back to your haven. Your cold feet try
to move fast, hindered by your hesitation to repeatedly make contact with the
cold floor. Every meeting makes you annoyed with yourself for forgetting your slippers
beside the bathroom.
You swipe into bed with the agility of a ninja and skilfully
get under covers without even a drop staining your bed. Feeling pleased with
yourself, you push your hair behind you ears and shift yourself around until
you have the perfect view. You raise the cup, up, to your tense, puckered lips
and linger for a while. You let the heat come down as your eyes wander and
stare out the window perched atop your cup. You notice the drizzle, as the
water droplets wet the trees and the bushes and the other windows across the
street. Your eyes twinkle with joy
Satisfied, you take a sip.
@Copyright©ManishaAR 2015. All rights reserved
Hellozie, my blogger people, as you know I am moving my
posts from my branch blogs into one space. This was one from my coffee
blog!
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