The Morning After
The morning after my last day of work arrived without ceremony. No alarm. No rush of thoughts. Just the faint hum of dawn pressing gently against the curtains, the way light does when it is in no hurry, its first rays coating the bed in a misty grey. I woke slowly, the way one surfaces from a warm bath. My body felt unfamiliar, lighter, or perhaps simply settling into the languid Sunday morning stretching out before me, asking nothing except that I stretch and purr. For the first time in thirty years, my morning belonged entirely to me. Beside me, my husband breathed in his easy rhythm, unaware of the small revolution taking place on my side of the bed. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, letting that simple motion anchor me. The room was still, and for once, I was even more so. Brunei’s quiet wrapped itself around the house...the soft kind of quiet that has weight. Out in the yard, a bird called once, then fell silent, as though it too had decided the day would unfold gent...
