The click of the kettle, steaming water unfolding green leaves.
I open the back door, the cats scurry in for breakfast, leaving fleeting damp pawprints on the wooden floor.
I take my mug and my journal outside on the patio. The cats will soon follow me.
This time of year mornings hold a gentle freshness, a soft breeze that sweeps away the last haze of sleepiness.
I miss out on this during the week. From Monday to Friday there are lunch boxes to pack and schedules to keep. But today is Sunday and Sundays are different. Sundays hold space and allow me to shed the layers I put on through the week.
I exhale and sip my tea, open up a blank new page. And I`m me.