Beneath our flannel sheets we slept. The north wind blew its cold breath, shaking limbs and scattering leaves. In a semi-daze I heard it moan, barred from homes with shut windows and locked doors. The heater, like a watchman standing post, hummed; its sound lulled me back to deeper sleep.
When morning dawned the sun did not haste to stretch forth limbs and ascend high over the horizon to spill its waking light. Awake, awake; the night is past. And so it is. Upon the ground frost dusted remaining blades of grass. A very discreet herald, the heater announces its post. Peeling layers of quilt, blanket and sheet I rise from the warm cocoon of my bed. My mother is here visiting, so I tip-toe down the hall. I am ready for breakfast even though my stomach has not notified me. I am ready for a mug of hot tea, to salute the morning in the most cozy and unhurried way.
Breakfast should never be hurried.
Mom awakes and we make fat mugs of tea. We lay the table with toast and jams, hard-boiled eggs, fresh yogurt and homemade granola.
The sun continues to climb. We slowly peel our eggs and begin drifting into conversation. Easily we are becoming awake. The tea is hot and the jams are sweet.
Breakfast should be a little bit of this and a little bit of that.
There’s a symphony playing over the radio but neither of us can identify it. We were talking and missed its introduction.
Broken shells and stray crumbs mark the end of our morning meal. There’s a splotch of jam on the tablecloth along with a dribble of wine and spaghetti sauce from the night before. It’s time to wash it, my mother says. She strips the table, and the day begins.
All images © 2013 Sriprae P. McDonald