Swaying Bench

I wake up early in the morning, just as the sun is starting to peek through my window illuminating the room. I get up and continue about my morning routine, brush my teeth, get dressed, then get coffee. My comfiest sweatpants and hoodie are draped on my body, a symbol of home. After making my perfect mix of coffee and creamer I head outside to the front porch, where I settle myself on our white bench, suspended from above by two white chains of an almost exact same shade. When I sit down upon the cushions, a small cloud of volcanic dust rises into the air. I can feel myself sink down into the red cushions on both the seat and backrest of the bench, almost absorbing me into them. The coolness, left behind by the moon, on the cushion sent chills through my body. Only for a brief moment however. The throw pillows in front of the back cushions sit perfectly in the arch my back, making my posture upright and extremely comfortable. The outer fabric of the pillows was slightly textured, but it was still comfortable to the touch. By now, the sun is making its way up the horizon and is now shining just beyond the birds situated comfortably in their nest on a large oak branch in our backyard. I take a deep breath of the cool, almost filtered air. It is almost as if you can smell the purity of the oxygen that makes its way down from the inactive volcano into the nook of the mountain the small town resides in. The filtered air cleanses my nose, almost resulting in the same shock that comes when sea water enters your nostrils. I can smell the aromas of fresh cut green grass, mixed with a little vanilla coffee creamer. As my nose grows closer to the mug, the burnt yet sweet scent of the coffee becomes overbearing. I take a sip and look around at my surroundings, trying to be in the moment, for it will be my last time here at this place. Everywhere I look I see green. In the corner of my eye I spot a deer poking its head through the berry bushes of the neighbor’s yard, searching for food to start off its day. Sonder overcomes me as I spot the townspeople strolling up and down the streets against the green background. Peace. It is as if everything before me is alive and breathing. The weather is almost perfectly clear, with ventricular clouds that envelop the inactive volcano barely visible between the tree trunks. The air is a temperature that is not too hot, nor too cold, it is almost as if you feel no climate at all. The shadows were just starting to cast themselves onto the cream railing of the porch as the sun continued along its path.With the sun now a bit further up in the sky, I can now see the reflection of the light on the pedals of the flowers that hang from the porch ceiling. The intricate natural designs and patterns on the pedals is entranching, always making you wonder how such a thing could be possible. The beautiful mixes of bright colors fill the pots, and when you grow near them, you notice the faint buzzing of bees all around. The creaking of the chains up above are at a constant tempo as I sway back and forth, however it is not loud enough to drown out the sounds of nature. Similar to the sound an old door makes from being opened often by the generations of families that passed through. Like the creaking door, the memories of years prior are strung within the creaky melody. Off in the distance the sound of chirping birds in the high up branches of the ancient oak trees. A slight breeze sways the branches, yet the trees remain solid. The wind rustles the oak leaves up above, and makes a rush of sounds, similar to a small creek flowing. This sound can be heard just about anywhere with trees, but here it contributes to something greater. Just then the sprinklers go off in the backyard, to the left of me, and the condensation begins to rise and surround me. These are truly the sounds of a paradise. Again, I take another sip of my coffee, feeling the warm liquid run down my throat, eventually coming to a halt in my abdomen. The warm feeling spreads from the stomach outwards into extremities. I feel the heat slowly flow through my veins, stretching itself out to span my limbs, and coming to a climax once it reaches my fingertips. A beautiful blend of roasted coffee and vanilla being the catalyst. The taste itself is reminiscent of a warm embrace. A feeling of comfort, confidence, and certainty. The feeling is almost cozy in a sense, it feels like home. A fire ablaze around me, keeping me sheltered from the uncertainty of the world. I start to zone out and just embrace the feeling of everything around me one last time. I lose myself in the motion of the porch swing, its constant tempo lulling me as I lean further back into the seat. My light sweatpants and  warm hoodie only add to my dreamlike level of coziness, prompting me into a sense of being. The sensation of warmth flowing through me mixed with the comfort of my attire leaves me in a state of euphoria. It is as if I am being hugged tightly by the environment itself.  The rocking motion almost makes you dizzy if you are not used to it, however this is a place I have visited many times before. Everytime it is the same motion, and the same feelings. The state of pure bliss, with the sun rising in front of me, and nature breathing its life into me as I take breaths of the crisp air. However, this feeling is different. Having realized this will be the last time I feel this way, it's almost sad, knowing that I will forever be looking back to this time and remembering how it felt. This cognizance lulls me away from my senses, pulling me back to reality. My once blissful thoughts become surrounded in sorrow. Sad yet hopeful. It is the sentiment that someone would have if they were leaving paradise, hoping to one day set foot in it again.