This morning everything is clean; the landlady of the house I am living in has picked up the branches and leaves strewn around the yard, which I normally pass by; all the rags and curtains have been washed and hung dry but pocked with impressions of rain, and the wooden floor glisten in the yellow seven am light. I sit at the living room couch with a stick of cigarette, looking at the grace of the morning.
Today is much new from all the other days. I woke up at six, cooked omelet, and ate while looking at the beautiful sunrise, wondering how many times I missed it. It’s not much new from the many other mornings I woke up but still, I felt something miraculous is about to happen. This time I know something will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this excitement, this growing expectation can ward off the miracle from happening. But I have felt it. It is coming. I am waiting while reading Derek Walcott’s poem, Love After Love.
Today is much new from all the other days. I woke up at six, cooked omelet, and ate while looking at the beautiful sunrise, wondering how many times I missed it. It’s not much new from the many other mornings I woke up but still, I felt something miraculous is about to happen. This time I know something will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this excitement, this growing expectation can ward off the miracle from happening. But I have felt it. It is coming. I am waiting while reading Derek Walcott’s poem, Love After Love.
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