I hit the snooze button thrice this morning, until guilt finally forced me to get up, wash my face and look presentable. I went upstairs to his room, knocked, and was greeted by his freshly-showered scent, a smile and a good morning peck. Went back down, said "good morning po" to his mom, checked my hair in the mirror one more time, and opened my door to a good morning hug. Sat down for a yummy breakfast, watched him tinker with the blender and asked if he's coming home for lunch. Yes, he is. Yay.
Mornings should always be like that.
After my mid-morning nap, I took a shower, went to the living room and read some magazines. Watched his mom take care of family business affairs, had bits of conversation, greeted his dad good morning and had some friendly banter with his little bro. Finally, he walked through the kitchen door, gave me a hug and a light kiss and sweetly whispered "I love coming home to you." We watched the end of the Mavericks' bid for the playoffs, had some lunch (probably the best tacos in the world), and lazed in front of the TV to while away the time.
Now I'm writing this blog and he just fell asleep with his hand on my knee and I can feel him softly breathing near my neck. There's still half an hour left before he has to leave for his next class, and I wouldn't spend it any other way.
Afternoons should always be like this.
Exactly a week from now, I'd be grudgingly packing and ticking off things from a checklist and calling a cab to take my me and my mom to the airport. And willing time to move faster, so soon enough, it'll be one year later, and I'll have another day like this.
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