One Sunday Morning
I must have curled up into an impossible position in my sleep in bed last night, for I woke in the wee hours of the morning feeling like a painfully tangled and twisted spring. I felt stiff and achy. I stretched my body this way and that, hoping to feel more comfortable. No such luck! I did the next best thing. I went downstairs into the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of cold tea from the teapot. Every night I make sure I have my teapot filled with fresh brewed tea, ready for just such a sleepless occasion in the middle of the night. I microwaved a mug of the beverage and groggily I went back upstairs. I sleepily plopped into my faithful old pink velvet armchair.
I am currently reading Isabel Allende’s, “Ines of My Soul,” for the zillionth time. I haven’t gotten round to go to the library. Peter used to complain that my books would leave us no room to live comfortably in the house. Of course he exaggerated. It’s a large house. I admit that I have books everywhere, but thank God for my books! During this pandemic, I would have gone crazy without them!
At any rate, there I was on the armchair with my legs stretched on a footstool. My feet were clad in thick warm socks; I wrapped myself in a throw which I had knit many years ago. I had knit two of them, one for Peter and one for myself. We wrapped ourselves in them on cold winter nights as we watched television. Now, the book was on my lap and my mug was clasped warmly in my hands, balanced on my chest. I started to read as I sipped. I must have dropped off into a deep slumber, for I began having some deep and meaningful conversations with all sorts of people in my dreams. I was enjoying myself tremendously. What stimulating conversations I was having!
I became aware of the radio by the bedside playing classical music. I began to stir out of my sleep as I sat up. I felt so refreshed. It had been just past three o’clock in the morning when I brought the tea up. Now, the weak winter sun was peeking through the curtains. It was very quiet outside. I could not guess what time it was. I rose and walked over to the bed. My goodness! The clock at my bedside said it was past ten thirty in the morning! I felt confused, why was the world so quiet? Then I remembered. Of course! It is Sunday. On a cold winter morning such as this, any sensible person would be indoors! Families would just beginning to stir. Wives would be preparing breakfast. In their dressing gowns and their bedroom slippers, they would gather around the kitchen table. They would happily chat away as they had the first meal of the day.
I went downstairs, filled the bowl with cat food. As was my habit, I opened the back door and put the food out for my outdoor pussycats. They were nowhere in sight. No wonder. Brrr! It’s sure chilly. Then I walked to the stove. I had a bowl of oatmeal with apples, walnuts, cranberries and a dash of cinnamon soaking in a saucepan from the night before. It was Peter’s favourite breakfast. It is the perfect breakfast for such a morning. Slowly I stirred the cereal in the saucepan. When it was done, I poured it into a bowl. The radio in the kitchen was playing Christmas carols. I listened to the music as I slowly ate my porridge. My mind drifted back to how it used to be in years gone by, when Peter was still alive. Life was so different then…