A Sunday Morning

 A deep, all-consuming abyss of nothingness. And then, light.

I slowly blinked my eyes open, gauging the familiar surroundings of my room, my blanket halfheartedly draped over my legs. The dull hum of the air conditioner hung in the background, with rusty grunts in irregular intervals breaking the monotony. My consciousness dawns and begins to settle in, gently spreading out like ripples on the surface of a crystal-clear pond. 

I stretched as I reached into the 3-inch gap between my pillow and the edge of the mattress, the perfect stowaway for my phone every night, and tugged at the charging cord lazily. I stared at the screen in a dreary daze.

I rubbed the corners of my eyes, dusting away the crusty goop that had collected in my eyelids over the course of the night. The particles dropped off of the edge of my half-stretched, long lashes as I blinked and blinked again.

I was pleasantly surprised to note that it wasn't as late as I would've imagined myself waking up on a Sunday. Especially not after I had pushed myself to stay awake till the wee small hours of the morning the previous night. 

I pushed myself out of bed and woke myself up with my daily morning prayer. 

Does that make me religious? I really couldn't tell. Would I call myself religious? I wouldn't say so, no. I tend to enjoy the, sometimes almost overwhelming, spirituality that religion offers, especially with rituals that are rooted in teachings and principles aimed at improving our quality of life. I sometimes question the magnanimity that religion provides, giving sinners respite from their guilt if they can muster up the requisite faith. What that says about me, I really couldn't tell. Maybe I did. I was unwilling to delve deep into that train of thought and arrive at a station that I really didn't want to find myself in.

I hated the thought of being a pretentious jerk. Giving myself undeserved relevance in the grand scheme of things just felt foolish. Scouring my beliefs to better understand myself felt like an exercise in kitschiness. 

For as long as I can remember my nights and dreams have been the same. Simply put, it was nothing. Just a pit of nothingness that I descended into every night and levitated out of every morning. No thoughts or pictures or conversations or events. Nothing like the dreams I used to have when I was younger. Nothing like the dreams I have when I stop smoking pot. I realized that it was the pot. There must be some medical explanation for what I was experiencing, not something I wanted to delve into at the moment. I loved my dreams. I missed them.

I stared at the mirror and saw a face smiling back at me. Occasionally, I had trouble recognizing the face. It was a confusing feeling, being unable to place your own reflection, failing to connect your thoughts and emotions with the physical manifestation of yourself. Today was one of those days. I saw a smile but I never felt one. 

I sluggishly picked up my toothbrush, a thin, long plastic model with ultra-soft, black bristles. I ran my tongue around the outside of my teeth, feeling a fine layer of plaque that had developed overnight. I skimmed my brush across my teeth, tasting the minty fresh toothpaste as it morphed from a thick glob into a foamy coagulation in my mouth. I spat it out. The bubbling solution had bright red spots, blending to form a light pink emulsion. 

My gums had been bleeding for a couple of months now. In the bigger scheme of things, this was an issue I was willing to brush under the rug for the time being, although I would be lying if I said it didn't give me pause for a minute and made me anxious at times. Was it the pot? It might be the pot.

The primary train of thought chugging through my mind: breakfast. I loved Sunday morning breakfast. I wouldn't say we really had a ritual that we followed every week; A shared understanding would be more apt. A shared understanding that it would be a lazy start to the day. 

Some Sundays, the ones where my mother would have a relatively early start, she would cook us a special breakfast; something a little fancier than our usual breakfast options. It is Sunday after all. 

Some Sundays, my father would wake up craving his favourite breakfast from one of the local eateries. I would walk down the stairs from my room, welcomed by piping hot breakfast, plonked in a combination of clear plastic wrapping, brown paper bags and brightly coloured rubber bands. 

I loved Sunday morning breakfast.

I skipped down the stairs into the living room. Bright rays of sunshine filtered into the space through the large windows near the high ceiling, bouncing off of the moss-green leather sofa against the left wall. The room was bathed in a bright white light, juxtaposed by the elongated shadows cast by the furnished contours. The sunlight fell on the far end of the sofa, almost shining a spotlight at the edge with throw pillows and a back cushion perched against it. That was my spot.

Through a painstaking process of trial and error, I had determined that 'my spot' in the living room was the one point in the room which gave me the best possible view of the television, while not restricting me from conversation. 

I liked having my spot, although I wasn't a prude about it. If someone had already taken the liberty of getting comfortable in my spot, I wouldn't force them out. It wouldn't make me happy, of course. You might catch me off guard muttering some expletives about flumping their buttocks on some other corner of the house, or not. But I wouldn't force them out. I consider myself to be a munificent individual in that aspect.

I strolled into the kitchen, a slight skip still in my step. I often wondered why I was in such high spirits on weekend mornings. There wasn't any particular reason as far as I could tell, but the fact that I could laze around at home, guilt-free, was my strongest guess.

In the pristine glow of the morning light, my mother stood before the stove, her silhouette a dance of purposeful motion as she orchestrated our breakfast. If you squinted just a little, the flurry of her movements might conjure the illusion of six arms, each in perfect sync with the next. With a hop from station to station, she tended to the sizzling pans and bubbling pots, her hands a blur of stirring, pouring, tasting, and flipping switches. It was a symphony of culinary artistry, a sight to behold in the quiet serenity of our kitchen.

She finally noticed me standing at the red brick archway leading into the kitchen. She was still in her pastel green nightgown, which almost looked kaleidoscopic with a litany of stains. Flashing a bright smile and a cheery morning greeting at me, she conducted her routine enquiry about my night and my sleep (more so chiding me for not getting enough). Her joyful disposition was in perfect harmony with the tenors of the day. I gave her an instinctively positive response as I peeked into the large pot that sat over a bright blue flame, bubbling away. 

A gingery aroma filled the kitchen and overwhelmed the senses. I gawked into the vessel, studying the deep orange stew as it simmered, slowly thickening in consistency. My mother brushed a strand of her deep black hair with the back of her flour-stained hand as she anxiously described the dish to me in great detail, explaining the ingredients she had used and how she had managed to incorporate them all into her plat du jour. She prided herself on making sure we ate healthy meals throughout the day. I smiled back at her as if to say I was pleased with the elucidation and eager to try her latest concoction. 

I retreated out into the dining hall adjacent to the kitchen. A freshly bought haul of groceries was scattered all over the wooden ovate table that sat in the middle of the hall. I still had a view of my mother through the durchreiche as she hunched over the chopping board mincing away. Sunlight gently filtered into the hall through the diaphanous sheers as tenderly billowed in front of the lofty French windows, radiating elongated golden beams on the deep red brick walls.