I wake to the dim light of a cloudy morning, the kind that makes the air feel slow. The house is hushed except for the kettle beginning to hum in the kitchen. Outside, the sky has pulled a gray blanket over the world, and I can feel my own body fall into its pace—unhurried, steady, settled.
Somewhere in that stillness, I slip back into another cloudy morning, decades ago. I am eight years old again, in the small front bedroom of my grandmother’s house. The window is open, and the scent of wet earth drifts in, mingling with the faint aroma of frying bacon. The air is cool against my arms as I pull the quilt closer. From the kitchen, I hear her moving—cupboards opening, the low clink of a spoon against a mug.
On days like that, there was no rush. No school bus to catch, no voices competing for space. Just the steady rhythm of her footsteps on the linoleum, the gospel station murmuring in the background, and the clouds outside pressing the world into something softer.
I didn’t know then why those mornings felt different—how they seemed to gather me up, keep me close, ask nothing from me except to be there. I only knew I wanted to stay in them for as long as they’d let me.
Now, sitting at my own kitchen table with a cup of tea gone lukewarm, I watch the clouds move across the sky and feel that same old weightlessness. The years between then and now collapse for a moment. I can almost hear the radio, smell the bacon, sense the safety in her unhurried day.
Some mornings belong to the present. This one belongs to both of us.
Deborah Renee Creativity
Cloud Morning
I wake to the dim light of a cloudy morning, the kind that makes the air feel slow. The house is hushed except for the kettle beginning to hum in the kitchen. Outside, the sky has pulled a gray blanket over the world, and I can feel my own body fall into its pace—unhurried, steady, settled.
Somewhere in that stillness, I slip back into another cloudy morning, decades ago. I am eight years old again, in the small front bedroom of my grandmother’s house. The window is open, and the scent of wet earth drifts in, mingling with the faint aroma of frying bacon. The air is cool against my arms as I pull the quilt closer. From the kitchen, I hear her moving—cupboards opening, the low clink of a spoon against a mug.
On days like that, there was no rush. No school bus to catch, no voices competing for space. Just the steady rhythm of her footsteps on the linoleum, the gospel station murmuring in the background, and the clouds outside pressing the world into something softer.
I didn’t know then why those mornings felt different—how they seemed to gather me up, keep me close, ask nothing from me except to be there. I only knew I wanted to stay in them for as long as they’d let me.
Now, sitting at my own kitchen table with a cup of tea gone lukewarm, I watch the clouds move across the sky and feel that same old weightlessness. The years between then and now collapse for a moment. I can almost hear the radio, smell the bacon, sense the safety in her unhurried day.
Some mornings belong to the present.
This one belongs to both of us.
By De’Borah Reneé ©️2025
4 months ago | [YT] | 0