Breakfast al Fresco
I woke up to the sound of fireworks this morning. I relished in the softness of my floral sheets and silk playsuit as the sun rays coming in from between the blue velvet curtains signaled that it was going to be a morning for breakfast al fresco.
I cut a banana in thick slices, dashed some cinnamon and headed to the garden to wait for the old lady to bring me tea. Her wrinkly face looks heavier in the morning, as does her pace, as she steps on the moss, donning a black midi dress and a brooch in her bun. She does not need to bend to place the tea cup on the table because it is already in her stance. I love that hers is the first face I see in the morning; I see time on her face — they are stains of relative time.
She left me to my solitude. I couldn’t see the village from where I was sitting but I could smell Baker’s gingerbread beasts and I could hear the fisherman cheering which meant he had caught something that morning, or he had found the perfect sweater he had been longing for.
Mornings like this one darling, well, they can make anyone feel like they can conquer the world. There is no sense of failure on such mornings, only a sign of hope that comes with such a grand introduction to the day.
I know it cannot always be like this for you darling, or anyone, but to wake up to the sound of fireworks is how everyone should start their day once every blue velvet moon.
Story credits: Marie Claire Italia for the image.