My Sunday Morning

My Sunday Morning started just as the clock turned 12, the hour before that I had been hoping to get to sleep early so that I can rise with the sun, but like he previous nights before sleep was far away and I couldn’t close my eyes or find that peace I so desperately needed. The room is dark except two scented candles, igniting the air around me of cherries and melons, bouncing dancing shadows across the walls of my room. Normally I welcome the quietness of the house and every once in a while the sound of a car passing on the street where the cement is still wet from the cold melting snow from a previous storm. It’s December, and you would expect it to be cold, but this morning the air is unseasonably warm, and there is no need for the heat to be on. My window is open, just enough to allow in a soft breeze as I lay under a thin sheet looking up at the ceiling, praying for sleep to catch up to me on this early Sunday Morning. 

 It’s still too quiet, so I press play on my iPod, turn the volume down, and Bill Withers voice fills the silent corners erasing the quiet emptiness that once resided around me. I smile, because my very first passion is keeping me company, the music, I feel content to hum out the tunes creeping into my ears. 

 My brain is wide awake and there is nothing I can do about this, it’s frustrating, yet the only comfort I have is the beautiful scent from the candles, a light breeze from my window and the old school tunes that have me reminiscing the days when things seemed so much simpler and I slept through the night with no problems. This is how My Sunday Morning has started and will continue until the sun creeps over the horizon and fills my room with its bright light. It was when the hands strike 12.


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