When the Sun Was Never Late
Latest news on WhatsApp أجدد الأخبار على واتساب
By Oumaima Abdelaziz
I woke before dawn, while the night was still carefully folding its quiet curtains across the sky.
The clock was approaching six.
For a brief moment, I wondered why the sun had not yet arrived. Why did the morning feel delayed? Why did the darkness seem unwilling to leave?
I stepped onto the balcony carrying those small questions that somehow become enormous in the silence before sunrise.
Then the breeze came.
Soft.
Gentle.
Almost familiar.
And with it came my grandmother.
Not in body, but in memory.
She used to sit on the old balcony every morning long before the village awakened. A cup of tea warmed her hands while dawn slowly painted the horizon.
As a child, I was impatient with mornings.
I wanted the sun to appear instantly.
She would smile, stroke my hair, and whisper words I never truly understood until years later.
"My little one... the sun is never late.
Sometimes we simply forget how to wait for it."
Standing there, I smiled at my own unnecessary worry.
The sun had not been late.
I had simply awakened earlier than usual.
For months, life had taught me to rush through mornings without noticing them. I had become someone who greeted the day after it had already begun.
That morning was different.
Closing my eyes, I could almost hear the quiet sounds of childhood.
The scent of jasmine after the night dew.
The warmth of freshly brewed tea.
The distant footsteps of men walking to the dawn prayer.
The smell of bread rising from village ovens.
My grandmother believed mornings carried messages.
Not everyone could hear them.
Only those willing to become still.
As I stood wrapped in those memories, the first golden thread quietly appeared beyond the horizon.
It did not fight the darkness.
It simply replaced it.
Light spread gently across rooftops and trees, touching everything without asking permission.
That is what hope does.
It never arrives with noise.
It simply returns.
I whispered the words that had lived inside me all these years.
"Every morning is a new promise."
With one deep breath, I felt something heavy inside my heart begin to soften.
For the first time, remembering did not hurt.
The memory had stopped being sorrow.
It had become comfort.
When the sun finally rose above the city, its shy golden light reminded me that some moments are not meant to be explained.
They are meant to be lived.
I quietly closed the balcony door carrying with me one delicate thread of light.
And I knew that tomorrow I would wake before sunrise once again—
not because I feared the sun would be late,
but because I had remembered the peace that waits for those who choose to meet the morning before the world does.
