Sunday Morning Stillness

The sun slices through the blinds,
stripes across my face,
waking me gently,
a false promise of peace.

Sunday morning.
Supposed to be a day of rest.
But the rest feels like a pause button,
before the movie starts again,
the one where I’m perpetually running late,
messing everything up.

I pull the covers tighter,
trying to recapture the warmth,
the oblivion of sleep.
It doesn’t work.
The anxiety is a low hum,
always there, beneath the surface,
like the refrigerator’s motor,
unnoticeable until you listen for it.

I get up anyway.
What else is there to do?
Lying here, stewing,
is a slow kind of torture.

The coffee pot gurgles,
a comforting sound.
I pour a cup,
black, the way I like it,
and sit on the porch.

The air is crisp,
still holding onto the chill of night.
The birds are chirping,
competing for attention.

My neighbor, Mrs. Henderson,
is watering her petunias,
the bright pink a splash of color
against the green of her lawn.
She smiles and waves.
I wave back.
A small connection,
a moment of normalcy.

The news is on my phone,
inviting disaster.
I resist the urge to check it.
For now, I’ll just sit here,
with my coffee,
and the birds,
and Mrs. Henderson’s petunias.

Maybe peace isn’t a complete absence of worry,
but just a small pocket of quiet,
a temporary truce.
A single, perfect sip of coffee.
The gentle breeze rustling the leaves.

Later, I’ll have to face the world again,
the emails, the deadlines, the expectations.
But for now,
just this.
This quiet Sunday morning.
This fragile, fleeting sense of calm.
Like holding a butterfly in my hand,
knowing it will fly away soon,
but cherishing the moment it’s there.
A small beautiful thing,
keeping me afloat, just for now.
The sun climbs higher, warmer now.
A new day, even if I'm not quite ready for it. The weight is still there, a dull ache, but somehow, lighter now, after the coffee and the birdsong, the quiet acknowledgment of another soul existing nearby. A small thing, but it helps, it always helps, even just a little.