My Mother and I traded coffee creamer for coffee liqueur this morning. I knew we were out, and my brain skimmed the idea but was still partitioning whether it was a boozy coffee or black coffee type of a day.
Choices, choices. It’s Sunday Morning and I’m gazing out at another daybreak. The mists grazes around the twists and winds of every tree branch. Dew collects on the windows. I cracked them open just to smell the breeze of petrichor. Let the mop fluid fumes waft out.
I’m working at the table today. Normally, I’m cooped up in my own abode. The security is tight. Only the cats and dog are accustomed to watching me work. I suppose it’s a sense of responsibility to transparency. This is my work, this is what I do. Mom says I’m a good writer. That I have beautiful, natural skin as well. For a Filipino Mother, I’m on a roll today and it’s not even 8am.
When we both woke, it was still dark out. I got to see all of that morning twilight time transition to day without a snip of sunshine, while conversating with my Mother. Now, toiling away at the keys as I stare longingly out the window, as if I were to to blink and I’d find myself upright with toes squished in the morning dew of the grass. Every sense indulged in petrichor. Archived. Filed and tucked away. Only to remind me, once I find myself forming another.
petrichor - archive 