Memories Of Rainy Mornings

On days like today, I remember the grey skies and the heavy rain of the mornings I'd wake up from under my warm blankets and tip toe out of my room, making sure the door wouldn't creak, and stopping in front of my mother's. It was never fully closed, so I'd widen the gap and stick my head through it. It smelled like baby powder and milk. I could see my brother's small, darkened shape sleeping quietly next to her. 

The wooden floor under my feet was cold and sticky. Blue light was seeping through the curtains. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, thumping loudly against my chest.

 'Mama,' I'd call out, anxiously, in a low whisper she couldn't hear. 'Mama?'

I'd bite my lip and, with an unnerving feeling in my stomach, I'd step in the damp room and sneak to her side of the bed, stopping for a moment to look at her face before touching her soft hand until her eyes would slowly open, blond eyelashes fluttering. She'd look at me in a brief confusion, freshly ripped out of her deep sleep, but soon enough she'd rub her eyes and let out a sickening sigh before getting up.

A smile would always raise the corners of my mouth with an immense relief.

And I'd observe her precise movements in the dim light, as she'd line up our teacups on the table, water boiling softly and the rain battering on our kitchen window. Her hands were bony, fingers long and frail, but strong. She had strong hands. I thought she was beautiful with her slim, tired body dressed in a silky nightgown, dark circles under her blue eyes and short blond hair plastered on her forehead because of the humidity.

On those gloomy days, I was truly happy to stay home, hands wrapped around my cup, watching the wind bend tree braches and scattering leaves. My mom understood my insecurities and for her compassion alone, I was thankful. I was safe in my imaginary world, among my books and scribbled on sheets of paper, away from the mean girls and their threats.