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 gently, without its usual cheery chirps.

I sat up. The air was cool against my arms.

No emails.
No deadlines.

Just the creaking of the bed as I shifted my weight, a sound so ordinary, so commonplace, yet I swear it was the first time I’d ever paused long enough to notice it. I waited for the familiar anxiety to inch forward as it usually did when my feet met the ground, but not this morning. I cocked my head at its absence, almost amused.

When my feet touched the cold tiles, I squirmed in delight. How odd, I mused, that silence and the balm of cold could induce such pleasure? I ran my hands slowly through my cropped locks and drifted toward the kitchen...more slipping and sliding than dancing, really, but something long forgotten fluttered awake in me all the same.

In the kitchen, the kettle unhurriedly worked its magic. I watched the rising temperature on the display with a kind of childlike fascination, leaning on the counter and savouring the small, almost ceremonial anticipation. Outside the window, the world was washed in early light, soft and pale, inviting me in.

When the brew was ready, I cupped the mug between my palms, breathing in the steam, earthy and bitter and made my way to the balcony. I waved to the lonesome walker whose stick tap-tapped on the asphalt as dark as my coffee. He gave a slow nod and continued on, leaving me behind to stitch him a life story of love and happiness, though his countenance held a sadness I couldn’t help but smooth over in imagination.

I realised, sitting there, that this was what peace looked like, not an absence of work, but the presence of a person at peace. The day stretched ahead, wide and unhurried. I didn’t need to fill it. It was enough to step into it softly.

When my husband finally wandered out, hair tousled, eyes half-closed, he smiled at me in that tender, sleepy way I’ve always loved.

“So,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “what do we do now?”

I handed him my mug of bitter black.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing sounds pretty good right now.”

And for once, doing nothing felt like the most beautiful way to start a new chapter. 

I dedicate this post to the warriors who walked beside me every day, for the quick chats while we made our way along busy corridors between lessons, for understanding that teaching is a calling, and for keeping me company in quiet rooms where we conquered mountains of scripts and paperwork. 

You made the work lighter and the days meaningful.