Life is full

of beautiful, 
super-ordinary moments like these.

Saturday morning.

It's been a grueling week.

                            Jess: A really, really messed up week?

                           Me: Seven days of torture?

                         Jess: Seven days of bitter?

                      From a popular song. We totes had this exchange once.

Wake up slowly. It's 11, and you still don't want to get out of bed. 

But you don't have to get out of bed,

               not yet,

                          because there's no class today.

So you shift back and forth, slipping between dreams and being half awake.

I finally do wake up, sit up, rub the sleep blearily from my eyes.

                Jess is sitting across from me.

                Snuggled up in blankets in her bed across from me,

                    on her laptop.

It's nice to wake up to your best friend already awake across from you.

Finally, I stumble from my bed, Jess trudges from hers.

I grab a mint Oreo and munch on it wearily,

                Jessica literally hugs her box of Lucky Charms, slumps, and sighs.

Still not saying anything but the groaning indicates what we nocturnal college students have to say about the morning, er, afternoon.

I grab another Oreo.

Sit down across from our Starry Night painting by Van Gogh that is still on the floor because we're too lazy to actually nail it up on the wall.

I munch quietly, study the colors. Get lost in all the brush strokes. Study his technique, pick out the contrasting colors, the splash of orange among the blue, wonder at what made this man think so differently from everyone else. I love that he could see the color bursting from the world around him. Sometimes that's how I see it, too.

My fingers absentmindedly brush my guitar, which is propped up next to the painting, leaning back on it's stand.

It's in tune.

Pull it down, straddle it across my lap. Trained fingers pluck and coax the sound. It vibrates, becomes warm at my touch.

I feel my body relax against it as the familiar tune envelopes me. I decide I'm not going back to bed.

The song comforts me, and the first words of the morning are uttered as I start to sing. Raspy, at first, hoarse with the remnants of sleep, but I find the warmth of the song, combined with my voice and emotions pulling something I love out of me. Expression.

A whisper of a voice echos with mine: Jessie's singing, too. Soon, she comes and sits next to me, turning the pages and harmonizing with the parts she knows.

We end up laughing over lyrics, talking about memories of songs, and falling into the rhythm of a good morning.

We sing for a good time, then it dissolves into both of us curled, me on the couch and Jessica on the ground with music and guitar accessories scattered around us, laughing over great times and just relaxing.

Little moment, simple moment.

But those are the best moments of all.