I woke up this morning to a muted sunrise. I sat up in bed with my eyes shut and felt the rays on my eyelids. It was cool so I pulled the covers up to my chin and sat like that for a while. I wanted to savor that moment because it was something I'd lost and might never get back.
The soft breeze that was blowing into the room, the thin curtains that was transforming the light, and the smell of food as Kak N heated them up on the kitchen stove.
All that brought me back to when I was about nine or ten years old in my grandmother's bed on the waning days of raya. There'd be the clang of cutlery being used, my mom, my grandmother and my aunts' contstant chatter pulling me out of bed and onto the cool wooden floor. I'd sit on the 'bendul' in the kitchen along with my cousins, waiting for our turn to shower. My mom would be sitting at the dining table with her cup of 'teh susu', on the chair right next to the window where the 'pokok cermai' constantly peaks through. I'd lean against the wall and drift in and out of sleep until I hear my grandmother hurrying me into the bathroom. She'd be talking about some distant relative or another that we just had to go and visit that day because there was no better time to go than now.
I love that time. It was simple, it was safe and I was happy although I didn't realize at the time that I was. Happy. Nothing more and nothing less and that was that.
And somehow this morning, aeons away from what that was, I caught a glimpse of it and managed to hold on and for a brief moment I was, again, happy like that.