Sunday Morning at the Thatched Cottage
The beam of honey sunlight that has been warming your nose finally wakes you up. Outside your bedroom window you hear the birds assembling in their morning chorus. Opening your eyes one at a time, you pull the warm sheets a little tighter around your chin. A small calico cat snoozes gently at the foot of the bed. She feels you stir and stretches her furry limbs, curling and uncurling her delicate white paws. She yawns and settles back into her morning nap. Today is Sunday and you can wake up slowly as you like. Cozy in your soft bed, you stare quietly at the burled oak beams of the cottage ceiling. Little flecks of illuminated dust float softly through the tiny bedroom, lending an enchanted quality to the early morning light.
The summer sun heats the roof and sides of the little cottage and you inhale the soft, earthy smell of warm thatch and wood. Your bedroom door is a shade of butter yellow, the paint worn a bit around the handle from generations of loving use. It sits slightly open and you can hear the faint jangling of pots and pans, the whisper of morning radio and the low hum of the kettle. The faint smell of hot coffee and warm bread begins to waft up the stairwell and into your little room. You can hear plates and mugs being set out onto the table. You stretch your limbs long against the soft, clean sheets and take a final yawn. Time to get up.
