Afternoon

Its four hours after noon and I sit beside my window with a not-too-hot cup of coffee and a book marked at three and quarters from completion in front of me. I look outside the window, too lazy to lift the coffee cup to my lips or the book to my eyes, lazy even to stir my gaze. The world on the outside of the window is as immobile as on the inside. The leaves are too lazy to flutter and the birds too lazy to sing; there is not a ripple in the lake nor a sound louder than silence. The sun himself is emitting light and warmth half-heartedly, not at all eager to aggravate their intensity. I sense my mother sitting beside me; her gaze fixed on a page of a book she hasn’t turned for the past several minutes. My brother and father are in a deep slumber. I feel very safe and secure in the unconscious knowledge of the safety and comfort of my loved ones. I ask not for more, not for the leaves to blow in a breeze or the birds to chirp, just for the sun to remain where he is so I can content myself on the well-being of my loved ones in his light. I have admired the beauty of the dawn and the tranquility of the dusk but I love the constancy of the afternoon. I do not eagerly await the afternoon as I do the dawn nor does my heart become anxious on its approach as it does on the arrival of dusk but I do rest and sigh off all my worries in its warm embrace. The afternoon, the silent comforter and seldom acknowledged, just like a mother.