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Unhurried

After tossing and turning through the early morning hours, I finally roll over to begin the day. To my surprise, my phone reads 10:42. For me, sleeping in this late is wildly unusual. I sigh, happy that I allowed my body to take what it needed this morning. It is one of those days where the calendar square is completely empty. The day belongs to me.

I spread the whipped chive cream cheese across the perfectly toasted farm fresh everything bagel, pile some scrambled eggs onto my plate, and plop myself down on the couch to savor every bite of my morning fuel. I sip my cold brew ever so slowly.

Unhurried, I think as I glance out the window. I have no place to be.

I retreat to the kitchen to empty and fill the dishwasher and think to press play on the audiobook that is scheduled to be returned later in the day. 25 minutes left. Dishes loaded, a spritz of cleaner here, a scrub there. The fridge calendar is updated, and I ask the sink to fill the pitcher with water. In turn, I fill the living room diffuser with the sweet and sour scents of orange, lime, and vanilla. Paradise. Today, I choose to light it up green—Michael’s favorite color. He’s been on my mind quite a bit as of late.

The mountain of clothes in the bedroom beckons me closer. Last night, I promised myself the summit would not grow any further from the base. After twenty minutes, the mountain has eroded. I smile at the site of our wicker chest; the fall blankets will soon emerge from inside. It feels good to tidy. Again, I plop myself down on the couch to savor the stillness of the apartment. I sip my iced water ever so slowly.

Unhurried, I think as I glance out the window. I have no place to be.

A quick call to my mom feels right in the stillness. I do some wedding research and eat some lunch. I check in with a couple of friends— one stuck at home with Covid, the other recovering from surgery. We talk about the weather and movies and progress and summers off.

The sun shines hot and bright as rain begins to fall. The cool droplets hit my arms, quick reprieves from the heat hanging in the air. I look up and recognize the feeling of hope as I search for a rainbow. I love sunshowers. The wild tiger lilies call to me as I pass them a second time on my walk. I pause to take them in, noticing their colors match the essential oil bottles whose scents are filling my home while I’m away. When I return to the sweet and sour scents of orange, lime, and vanilla, I plop myself down. This time, on the floor.

Unhurried, I think as I glance out the window. I have no place to be.

I turn on my stretch routine. The living room fills with calming melodies, deep breaths, and Sam’s “You go girl” as he returns home from work. We play a game of Scrabble (our favorite) and part ways for the evening as he leaves for soccer. I enjoy some more alone time and notice the golden glow outside.

Unhurried, I think as I glance out the window. I have no place to be.

Tonight, I inhale my sea salt caramel Yasso bar (the one thing I don’t do ever so slowly). I exhale, recognizing that I rarely feel unhurried in my work life. Some days I write for others. Tonight, I write for myself—to remember what this unhurried day felt like.

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Published by Melissa Quimby

Melissa is a 4th grade teacher in Natick, Massachusetts. She can often be found with an iced coffee and middle grade novel in hand! Connect with her on Twitter & Instagram - @QUIMBYnotRamona.

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