Friday, October 26, 2001

Inhaling another breath of air

Smell the fresh rain while the warmth of the sun kisses your cheek. Feel the chilled wooden planks of the porch on your bare feet. Stretch. The routine floods your brain. Touch the saturated lumber as your hand grazes the rail. The sun bathes you with light as you stride towards the porch opening and down the mellifluous steps to the footway. Grab the sodden newspaper wrapped in a failing plastic bag and stand up sucking another breath of oxygen into your depleted lungs. Your feet, tinged with cement flakes and grass clippings, start back up the veranda steps. The sun's rays welcome your back and in closing your eyes you imagine the silk touch of your mother's hands across your skin. The feeling is splendidly familiar. The moment passes and you grip the icy door handle serenely. Wind rushes outward and you can taste the eggs and bacon in the air. Toss the paper on the floor, dash toward the kitchen and sit comfortably in the aged wooden chair, as a plate is placed in front of you. Eat the smooth, golden, scrambled eggs, topped with a touch of salt and pepper. And the fried, crimson bacon, smothered with grease and minuscule morsels of egg. Your hunger is satisfied and you clasp the phone. You greet your mother with a "Good Morning, I love you" and you can hear her smile through the receiver. Her smile is what makes every morning worth waking up to.

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