A breakfast in the silence of a grey and misty morning
There was a mist, repetitive as a bubblegum pop song, that insisted on coming in from the river. It pervaded over the water, floating on its wake, clawing at the sand and the dunes, reaching its fumelike fingers towards the houses and the cobblestones on the pavement. It left a patina of moisture over everything, and gave the morning a quiet, grey quality that made everything look drowsy and subdued, underexposed.
It had a warmth to it, that misty greyness that covered the early morning, as it softened the whole of the surroundings, making the world momentarily less harsh, less brutal. It brought respite from the soon to rise white blazing sun, that would turn eyes blind with its glare, and make bodies go mellow with its intense heat, its bright light bringing out every flaw, every fail.
That subdued light begged for a slowness in every move, every gesture, as if a caress of sorts, over every object one might touch. It begged for dormancy instead of urgency, a pensieve act instead of reactions burning on the tip of the tongue. It begged for silence, and peacefulness, it begged for introspection in preparation of all the extroversion of the day ahead. It begged for lonesomeness.
A precious moment, sitting alone at the table, a sleeping household, quietly humming away the night's restfulness, a routine that belonged to those warm, grey days alone, when the hours ahead begged for a comforting start to the day, a heartfulness that prepared the body to the rejoining of the world and all the exhertions it demanded.
A little of this, a bit of that, making sure not to rattle the cutlery, keeping disturbances at bay, revelling in the silence, the peace, the only sounds those inflicted by the rushes and outbursts of an overactive mind. A bite of tarness, a twinge of sweet, a draught of freshness, bitter coffee and sweet jams and creamy yogurts. Bread and cake and all homemade, with patience and love and a certainty that all the work put in to it was worth it.
A gaze out of the window to the mist covered roads ahead, the streets still empty, the birds that start to stirr in their nests and the soft breeze just beggining to push those tendrils of grey away. The fog from the sea that moves over the beach, away on its travels, pushing away on its journey, as if a blanket over the buildings and the houses, telling people that nature still rules, always rules.
And then on its wake, that tangy smell of the sea, and the saltiness and the sun that is coming out and the rising heat, the windows no longer shut but open wide to greet the day, the streets now stirring awake with the clatter of sandals and the patter of feet that run down the road on their search for the beach, and the laughter, and the voices, and the hustle bustle of the holidays after a night of deep rest, as the bodies make way and lay on the sand, absorbing the rays of the sun, making stock for the Winter to come.
That repetitive mist, that insist on coming, be it from the river or the sea, spreading its tender grey tendrils all over the land, reminding us that as much as there's heat, seasons still turn, and change, and everything changes again and again, and it all will return and come back to the same...