With Every Passing Day

Once upon a time my mornings were about a melodious chirping on my window frame and a little sparrow asking me how she looked before she starts her day. She'd brush her feathers neatly and ask me what was my plan for the day. I was sleeping, so I didn't know what surprises the day had for me. I could barely open my eyes wide enough to know if her tail feathers were matching with her scarf feathers, or her little eyes were as shiny as black beads. To me, she always looked beautiful, even though this daily ritual baffled me.

Mornings now, are about swapping dreams and joy with my laziness. Mornings now, are about savoring; they have become deep, intimate, and quiet. Mornings now, are about those baffling, indecipherable moments when I wake up, where I don’t know who I am, who I’ve been, or who I want to be. My weekends start with finding a little spot of light on the wooden beam of my ceiling, and guessing what time it is by its placement. Then softly closing my eyelids to see if I can still see the yellow spot of light.