Short Stories

Good Morning

Behind my window I can hear the kiskadees singing as they always do. I smile softly to myself, my eyes still closed as I savour the gentle warmth of my blankets. The fabric is soft on my skin. Slowly, I stretch into a yawn, flexing my toes and rubbing my eyes open to the familiar room around me.

The orange, morning light that filters though cotton curtains paints everything around me a delicate gold. As I ease myself out of bed, I am met with cool air from the open window, and a small shiver travels down my back before I pull the fuzzy brown sweater over my head. It rests comfortablely over my nightgown. The floor boards are cold on the soles of my feet when I stand up, the bed creaks in complaint as if it wanted me to stay. Kiskadees keep singing.

Old wallpaper, chipped and peeling hugs to the walls of the room, its quaint, subtle flowers faded with time. So many stories lie within these walls, yet I can only hope to know my own. The oak vanity across from the bed shows me the aftermath of sleep. Behind the marked glass of its mirror, my eyes are pink and my hair rests in a stubborn tangle of curls. I think how my mother would still call me beautiful.

The morning is soft and docile. It lets me relish the calm and the quiet of the world. My head does not spin with thoughts, the kiskadees sing on until the sun is high above us. There is a perfect stillness for just a few short hours, a stillness with which we are blessed with. A time where our struggles do not yet matter, our hardships are nothing but an afterthought as the morning dew drifts in past the curtains.

I remind myself how lucky I am to have this. How wonderful it is to just breathe, unbothered by all the troubles of the universe. I smile and tell myself, "Good morning."