That morning light was soft and lazy, like a blanket that you don’t want to stop wrapping yourself in. I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet, but something sunny, sweet and fresh at the same time was already floating in the room. Oranges.
The subtle bitterness of the zest and the sparkling freshness of the juice - the smell is so obvious that it seemed to touch the skin. I remembered how, as a child, my mother always peeled oranges so that drops of juice flew into the air and settled on her hands. Small splashes stuck to my fingers, and I laughed, licking them, as if tasting the morning.

Today, this smell brought me back there, to a small kitchen with flowered curtains, where the sun fell right on the table. But I am no longer a girl who waits for her portion in slices, but a woman who chooses how her day will begin.

I got up and went to the kitchen. There was a grid of bright oranges on the table. I decided to make fresh juice - noisily squeezing out each half, feeling how the warm aroma becomes thicker, as if the sun had descended into the glass. A couple of toasts, honey, and I am already sitting on the balcony, looking at the slowly waking city.

I wonder how many people are now also holding a glass of juice in their hands? Someone, perhaps, drinks it on the run, someone - in a cafe with a view of the sea, and someone - in bed, listening to the morning news. But for me, this morning was special - it had everything I love: simplicity, taste, and memory, which suddenly came to life from one smell.

I caught myself thinking that happiness is often hidden in such little things. In the aroma of citrus, in the soft rays of the sun on your cheek, in the way the city is still a little sleepy, but you are already in it, with its new promises.