Sunday morning.

I pour cold milk into hot coffee and watch as the steam rises up around me. I drizzle honey on toast and hear the airplanes flying overhead. There will always be entire memories in the sound of airplanes overhead. Reaching into the tree, I pluck a fresh orange and feel it’s candy colored flesh in my hand. I peel its flesh, tearing each piece from its lover and watching as teardrops of juice fall down my forearms. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong serenade the whole morning. A little girl dances on the sidewalk with ruby red shoes; her wispy hair following her twirling body like a jetstream. Spring is dancing too. Spring is rising up from the ground and asking for my hand; promising to pull me out of winter. I let it. I believe it. I believe in anything that beautiful. With blue jeans and a white blouse I walk past coffeeshops and vintage boutiques, each overflowing with Sunday crowds of people; people milking the last drops out of another weekend before being consumed by the monotony of the structured, scheduled week. I smile at a baby in the arms of his mother, waving in the little way that we all do for tiny humans. He laughs. The barista with short hair, giant dangling earrings, and a look of exhaustion writes down my order. I thank her and feel the joy of a child as she hands me freshly baked bread with my coffee. Sitting on the patio, I watch the world unfold around me like a scene from a movie. The old man to my left wipes foam from his upper lip as the woman he’s with reapplies her lipstick. To my right, a man sits alone reading. I crane my neck, desperate to see the title; desperate to see anything that anyone is ever reading. The Sun Also Rises. Classic. I sip my coffee. 

Happy Sunday. This bit of rambling prose was inspired by reading Virginia Woolf‘s Mrs Dalloway, where a woman’s single day is transcribed in the length of a novel. I think there’s a lot of beauty in that. I think that the mundane moments of life carry the stories that are most worth telling.

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