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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