Sunday Mornings

My eyes flutter open. My lashes are still heavy with sleep and my breathing is still making that transition.

The first thing I see is you, sprawled on your tummy with your face turned towards me. I smile at this very clichéd, very poetic scene: a ray of sunshine is creeping in through my chocolate brown curtains dappling your face with a single streak of light across, your small snores and the fast swish of the fan are the only noises that break the silence of Sunday. Stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason, I decide.

It is comfortably cold, the kind that makes me tuck my toes in securely. I lift my head up half an inch to check if you are cold, if you need a podapu*. But I see that you have purposely stuck your feet out of the covers, one of your many little idiosyncrasies, one of many that come together to make you, you.

I smile sleepily: those moments when you are being you flit hazily through my mind – insistent hand movements that you make when you are talking about someone at work who you specifically don’t like, the yikes face when you realize you have forgotten to do something that I asked you to, the helpless face when I’m crying about family, the smile that sneaks out when you see me search absently for my phone with one hand while the other is clutching  a book which has my nose buried in it, the way you flop onto the bean bag with a thud that always earns a scowl from me….

That thread of thought leads to another, less pleasant one: all those times when I have, hands on hip, yelled at you for things that you don’t do and shut you up with sheer, unadulterated, acidic temper. I immediately feel sorry for you, for having to deal with it… It takes even more out of me because you almost never react till I shut up for good about it. I’m thankful, I’m grateful.

I know if I wake you up now, you will drag me all the way to Church for half the day. So I’m quiet as a mouse, I give myself up to the thoughts flitting around again; they don’t really make any noise, either.

You mutter something about a costing report in your sleep and I say pffft involuntarily – your obsession with work is something that I will never understand. But I have a feeling that I’m mirroring you in my career, I aspire to be you…. That’s gotta be a good thing, right?

I realize that I don’t question this anymore – there used to be a time when my face had a smile for you but my head was bursting at its seams with questions – I don’t know when those questions faded away, though. Have I learnt to go with the flow? Or have things just solidified, like truth or a fact, like how the sun will never rise from the west?

I am overwhelmed, suddenly, when I realize that for once in my life, I’m at the right place at the right time.  I’m where I’m supposed to be. So I touch the wood on headboard superstitiously, silently thank my stars and shut my eyes tight, before snuggling in a little closer. This moment is mine and I promise myself that I will get it right this time.

*podapu: duvet

P.S: NaBloPoMo is obviously shot to hell. Sigh.
P.P.S: I want this to happen to me. Double sigh.