i wake to the fits and spurts of a heater coming to life for the first time this season. it must be cold out, brisk at best. but my room is warm and safe.
i wander into the living room. pull up the blinds. oh how that blue of the sky undoes me. the trees across the way there...heaven. something about that golden glow of an october morning.
into the kitchen, the cold tiles kissing my bare feet. i put on a pot of coffee. there is the smell of fresh paint in there. i wonder who was painting, what was done.
i find my way back into my room. following the grid of wood grain. turning corners. a symphony of creaks. the room smells of sleep. i crack the window. gather my laundry.
down the elevator to the basement. the painted gray cement and slow grumble of the machines.
there's something about sunday mornings. the quiet. the pliable nature of time on this one day. it is restorative. holy. a time trap in which a million possibilities are made manifest. the great gift of the week that simultaneously ends and begins another set of seven days.