Mornings

Fluffy eyes refusing to open up. Twisting in the bed, my head still buried in the pillow, another nudging at my thighs, early mornings always made me languish. The chirping of the birds signaled the sun’s first kiss was about to touch the earth. Clattering of the utensils at the roadside tea stall meted out household melodies. Somewhere in the distant someone was heard humming a tune, soothing the ears. I could hear my mother’s hushed footsteps heading towards the kitchen. In a minute’s time I could feel her hands caressing my forehead.

She would do that every morning. Caress me, run her nimble fingers through my wild hair, bribe me to get up and get ready for school, which I abhorred so much. But I longed for this moment. Every morning. These few moments of my mother being with me, made me feel on seventh heaven, or rather my safest haven. Yes it was my safest haven.



I somehow managed to crawl out of the bed, move towards the open window of my room and stare out at the green fields beside the water body. Again she would coax me to wash my face and finish my breakfast before leaving for school. I yearned for her soft touch on my head.



Mornings. Yes, they were, but now they have become those mornings, of that life, which I have long left behind in the journey called life.



Even today, miles away from her, I experience the same mornings. The same sun, the same chirping of the birds. The same clattering of utensils at some tea stall across the road. But these mornings lack her warmth. I miss her smell terribly and her fingers running through my wild hair.



Mornings they were and mornings these would be. Mornings will come and go. But those mornings which I was forced to leave behind will always linger in my memory for ever and ever.