Small Morning Makes The Day

The small bedroom is still dark and cold when the alarm rings.

Outside, the whole city is gray and very quiet under a low sky.

A small bird sings somewhere close to the cold, dark kitchen window outside.

The yellow street lamps are still on along the road below the building.

A truck passes far away.

Inside the small, dark apartment, a young woman wakes up slowly.

Her name is Mina, and she lives with her brother on the fifth floor.

The thick blanket is still warm and soft, but slowly she sits up in her bed.

Morning always comes the same slow, quiet way every single day for her.

She rubs her eyes.

First, she reaches over in the dark and turns off the loud morning alarm.

Then she walks across the cold room and opens the small bedroom window.

Fresh cold air comes in, and the whole quiet room feels new again.

She takes one slow breath.

She does this same thing every morning now, without even thinking about it.

When you wake up early like this, the whole world feels soft and slow.

Nothing moves fast outside the window, and the morning light is still pale gray.

The brand new day has not asked anything from her yet at all.

She sits on the side of the warm bed for a few quiet seconds.

Her phone is on the small table, but she does not check it yet.

The early, quiet morning belongs to her first, and to the loud world later.

After a minute, Mina gets up and walks slowly to the little kitchen.

The cold floor feels hard and smooth under her two bare feet.

The lights buzz on.

She fills the old kettle with water and waits for it to boil on the stove.

The kettle makes a low, sleepy sound while the gray morning grows lighter.

She is in no hurry at all this slow, gray morning.

Through the thin wall, she can hear a neighbor open and close a door.

Somewhere down the hall a kettle whistles, and a radio plays low, soft music.

In the morning, she always drinks one warm cup of green tea.

The warm round cup sits easily and softly in her two cold hands.

White steam rises slowly from the cup and touches her tired face.

She really likes this quiet time alone before the busy day starts.

She closes her eyes for a moment.

The round white kitchen clock shows seven, and then slowly seven fifteen.

After that, she walks over and opens the wide living room curtain.

Soft yellow light comes into the room, slow and warm and golden.

The walls turn from gray to pale gold.

The green plants on the small shelf turn slowly toward the warm new light.

Nothing here is special at all.

But it is enough for her.

These small, simple things always feel good to her every single morning.

She stands quietly by the window and drinks the last warm bit of her tea.

Far below, a small blue bus turns the corner and stops for a moment.

The whole gray world outside is just starting to move and wake up.

Next, Mina makes a small and very simple breakfast in the warm kitchen.

She cooks warm white rice and one egg, just like every other day.

The egg cooks fast in the warm black pan on the stove.

Oil sounds in the pan.

Her younger brother is still fast asleep in the next warm room.

He wakes up late every day, and then he eats his food too fast.

He always says he has no time at all in the morning.

He quickly grabs some bread from the table and runs straight to the front door.

The door shuts hard.

But Mina sits down at the small table and eats her food slowly.

She thinks this small, warm meal really helps her start the day well.

A quiet, good morning makes a good day, she truly and quietly believes.

She remembers her mother, who also ate her breakfast slowly every day.

Some small, quiet habits stay with us for a very long, long time.

After breakfast, she stands up and washes the one small white plate by hand.

Warm water runs over her fingers, and her hands move on their own.

The same easy steps over again, always in the same simple morning order.

When you eat slowly like this, you notice so much more.

The white rice is still warm, and the green tea is still a little sweet.

She wipes the table once.

Now the whole small apartment is much brighter and warmer than before.

Cars move and stop on the busy street far below the kitchen window.

People walk fast outside with heavy bags and warm paper coffee cups.

The big city is fully awake now, loud and bright and busy.

In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth and washes her face with clean, cold water.

In the small bathroom mirror, her tired eyes look a little more awake now.

At eight o'clock, Mina puts on her old gray walking shoes by the door.

She takes her brown bag, her house keys, and her black cell phone.

The long hallway is quiet and empty, and the old elevator hums down.

She checks her coat pocket twice.

Then she finally opens the heavy door and goes out into the cool morning air.

She wakes, she eats, and then at last she goes outside again.

Three small, quiet things, always in order, every single day.

The same little brown bird still sings near the window above her head.

She looks up at it once for a second and almost smiles.

Mina walks slowly down the quiet street to the small bus stop.

The wind is light and cool today, and the wide sky is clear and blue.

Other tired people wait there too, half awake and standing very quiet.

A leaf falls near her feet.

A young man near her drinks his hot coffee and looks down the road.

An old woman holds a paper bag of fresh bread and warm milk.

Everyone here has their own small, quiet morning, just like her.

They all wake up, they all eat, and then they all go too.

The big city bus comes around the corner, slow and bright and yellow.

Mina steps on, finds a quiet seat, and looks out the wide window.

She already knows that tomorrow will look almost exactly the same.

The same morning alarm, the same warm tea, the same heavy front door.

The same short, slow walk under the same wide gray morning sky.

But this small, slow morning is somehow never once boring to her at all.

It is so quiet and simple, and it is fully and only hers.

She wakes, she eats, she goes, and so a brand new day quietly begins again.

One warm cup, one small meal, and one short and easy morning walk.

These three small, quiet things hold her whole busy day together.

The long day in front of her has not even really started yet.

And already, somehow, it quietly feels like a good one.