Morning

The rattley-hum of the geriatric fridge, the clickety-buzz of the insects and the first chatters of birdsong. The rhythmic shush of the sweeping lady’s brush, tidying the leaves in her wide-brimmed hat before the sun rises. 

Listen for the first tell-tale creak of the door and the pad pad of small sleepy feet.  Not yet my child, not yet. 

The water boils slowly, a deep oceanic inhale. The tea brews, a familiar friend to greet and awaken or offer comfort and solace. This is my small ritual, once performed for a sleeping mother on chilly highland mornings, now just for me. 

The first pale light of dawn seeps through the branches, gently bringing the room into focus.

The air is fresh and already warm with a promise of a close heat to come. It will build and build until sweat runs in rivulets down our bodies, then break in a deep thundering gush of rain. 

A tired sister sleeps on. Two days ago she walked by Sydney Harbour. Now she slumbers on a bamboo mat with the dull whir of a cheap fan, a new country awaits her when she wakes. Two small boys in a warm tangle of sheets and teddies, the quiet before the patter, jump and charge with calls for milk, breakfast and stories.  Long and lean, my lover sleeps, deep in our nest of bamboo and cotton.

This is the day, the only day we have. It is for growing and learning, for laughing and loving, for sharing food and stories, for work, play and rest. Always today. Be present and welcome it. It is yours.