An Ordinary Sort of Morning
Hearing the soft sound of my alarm,
rather than becoming alert, I feel like I’m a burnt piece of toast stuck in a
broken pop-up toaster. All over my sore body, which suffers from on-going muscle
pain because of the weight training class I’m taking this semester, lies a huge
and thick blanket. Between opening my eyes and actually getting out of the bed is
usually a five-minute gap, because it surely takes some time to escape from the
toaster, tightly tying down my body. Well, I get over it anyway pretty much
every day. I pick up the edge of the forest green colored blanket and pull it
over all the way up to the half of a mint green pillow. The next thing I do is
dampening the hard and dry toast with not-too-hot water in order to make it a
little moist. Then, I’m ready to go get my breakfast.
I come across a big dining table to
get to the kitchen where a chubby refrigerator is full of food and leftovers. On
the kitchen table is a dark chocolate wooden basket with bananas, oranges, and
apples in it, reminding me of a typical still-life painting by one of the
finest artists. When I’m about to reach one of the bananas there, Camila, in
her casual but supremely neat clothes, shows up saying “good morning!” with a
wide smile. I love her good-morning. It is bright and has vibrant rhythms, but they
become slow like “good moooourning.” when I step out of my room around nine o’
clock in the morning, implying that I am supposed to get up far earlier than
that.
While waiting for my cut-in-half
bagel to become crispy and get lightly browned, a few pieces of bacon is sizzling
on Camila’s pan. Suddenly, the air is filled with the nice nutty smell of
sputtering bacon and the delectable smell of a freshly toasted bagel. After
cracking two eggs into the other pan, she starts singing hymns very softly but
in a way that I can tell she was a music major. Then, I hum the same tune. Once
I start singing to myself, she follows my melody. It’s quite amazing how well
we can communicate with each other with the songs that we know. Language
barriers don’t exist there.
As I take a bite of my evenly cream-cheesed bagel, I check
the temperature reading the thermometer hanging on the 200-year-old oak tree
standing in the backyard garden. Through a wide French window by the counter I
can see most of the garden. Birds are gathering as a group right behind the
window. I think their twittering sounds peaceful, but then I hear a rattle. Immediately,
the birds fly with flaps. Here is Bill striding out from the garden with a
handful of spinach in his left hand and a funny-looking carrot in his right,
which has already a bite taken out of it. The garden is called Bill’s garden;
gardening is mostly his job along with accounting. He now sits down on his own designated
spot that is the crimson, old-fashioned sofa and places his big, black laptop over
lap to work.
The biggest clock in the house
strikes with a muffled sound telling me it’s eight sharp. I’m ready to leave
for the campus after pouring water into my coffee-colored, stainless steel water
bottle. I pass through the work room to go out where a sewing machine has just
begun to make regular beats. Sometimes I can’t believe that Camila, who starts
working long before even I open a book, is in her mid seventies. Behind her
stands me hesitating to say good-bye, a little bit afraid that I might bother
her. She notices me, grins broadly, and recites a verse that she has been
enjoying this morning in a pleasant, silvery voice. I repeat after her and say,
“See you later!” Energized and charged, the one who is leaving the house is not
a burnt piece of toast anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment