I wake up to the cat these days, either to his need to head out or to answer his supplications to come back in. Somedays I feel more owned than owner, but that's okay. It's a form of love, not quite as satisfying as waking up next to a lover or even hearing the rustling of my children in the next room, but still, it's something. So, after the cat comes the dawn, and then, when everything is in it's proper place, then eight o'clock comes around. I always know when it's eight, wether or not I'm sleeping or hungover or been hard at it for hours. I just know.
Eight o'clock these days brings morning rituals. The computer needs to come up, the cat needs to be fed, the coffee needs to be ground, the water needs to be heated. All these needs need to be met. I suppose in taking care of all these things, inanimate or otherwise, I am somehow validating my place on this planet, or, at the very least, anchoring down the morning in my house. My house. Goodness. Right now this house is a quiet thing. I hear the ticking of clocks, battery run or otherwise, and outside of that, not too much. Sure, there is the pink noise of computer fans and refrigerators and toilets filling. There's traffic outside and the occasional clock tower bong and clang. But otherwise this house is still. I suppose that's one of the reason's why I like my morning ritual. For a moment the house is alive with sound, with movement. The only thing missing is the radio or music. Maybe I need to be build that in. Yet another need to be fulfilled.
So the coffee water boils as I watch my wonky computer struggle to provide the basic minumum of service. I throw heated water on the grounds, and then, as a nod to you, I splash hot water in my cup to the rim.
I think of that gesture and wonder if not for you would I have ever learned or bothered or wondered about the power of that simple act. It's not as if when we go out into town anybody heats up a coffee cup. I don't go to Starbuck's or Tully's and get a heated cup. Maybe in the midst of a breakfast or post 2 AM rush I'll get a hot cup at Denny's or Norm's, but usually it's cold porcelain, heated briefly by a fairly lightweight cup of joe. Does it matter much? Is it really that much of a deal?
I think of all our talks about coffee, about how coffee came in the door with you four years ago in a paper cup. I think of all the times we shared coffee, out of a thermos on the road, on a park bench before work, in restaurants on the sly or during mornings when you had a moment and I still had time before my shift. I think of in particular of one evening. We had a few moments so I brewed up a pot of espresso. We heated the cups that night, which called for an extra burner. We took on that harsh pot and hit the road, took on Trader Joe's and headed home in the rain. You had a scare, saw a neighbor which I am sure took the edge off the fun. But I remember the thrill of slipping away that night, of driving off in the dark, of sitting in the parking lot waiting for that neighbor or business partner or whomever to go away. Palpatating hearts. Sweaty armpits. What a rush.
But it was the heated coffee cup we always came back to after that. I have two photos that go back and forth with, as far pictures I like to have up of you. One is of you slicing clafouti on your last day at work, the other is one where you came by in the morning. We had a staff meeting pending, and you rushed in to get a cup of coffee. I barely had time to press and shower and all that, but I brewed us up, and, in the midst of all that prepping, barechested I took a photo of us. The next one, for good or ill, didn't come out. Too bad. We always loved those smooching shots.
Those coffee cups are in our hands. They were warmed, slowly. The coffee was rushed, but, then again, so were we. We were all about time. Our time was fast paced, all the way down the line. So much a contrast to my mornings now. I wake, let in the cat, throw him some tuna, read the news online, sip my coffee from a heated cup. I look up at my denuded bookshelves and know that I'll be taking that ritual to some far off place fairly soon. Maybe my mornings will be graced with noise, then. Maybe I'll hear the footpads of my children waking, getting ready for school. Maybe I'll finally wise up and take on some new company, learn to live again.
But then, maybe, just maybe I'll need that quiet for a bit longer. Maybe I'll need that new space and that silence and that warm coffee cup to help get me through that upcoming novel. Maybe I'll need that quiet to channel into those coffee fueled moments we used to share, the ones, in the end, that were graced with slowly, softly warmed coffee mugs.
Your WHMB
Eight o'clock these days brings morning rituals. The computer needs to come up, the cat needs to be fed, the coffee needs to be ground, the water needs to be heated. All these needs need to be met. I suppose in taking care of all these things, inanimate or otherwise, I am somehow validating my place on this planet, or, at the very least, anchoring down the morning in my house. My house. Goodness. Right now this house is a quiet thing. I hear the ticking of clocks, battery run or otherwise, and outside of that, not too much. Sure, there is the pink noise of computer fans and refrigerators and toilets filling. There's traffic outside and the occasional clock tower bong and clang. But otherwise this house is still. I suppose that's one of the reason's why I like my morning ritual. For a moment the house is alive with sound, with movement. The only thing missing is the radio or music. Maybe I need to be build that in. Yet another need to be fulfilled.
So the coffee water boils as I watch my wonky computer struggle to provide the basic minumum of service. I throw heated water on the grounds, and then, as a nod to you, I splash hot water in my cup to the rim.
I think of that gesture and wonder if not for you would I have ever learned or bothered or wondered about the power of that simple act. It's not as if when we go out into town anybody heats up a coffee cup. I don't go to Starbuck's or Tully's and get a heated cup. Maybe in the midst of a breakfast or post 2 AM rush I'll get a hot cup at Denny's or Norm's, but usually it's cold porcelain, heated briefly by a fairly lightweight cup of joe. Does it matter much? Is it really that much of a deal?
I think of all our talks about coffee, about how coffee came in the door with you four years ago in a paper cup. I think of all the times we shared coffee, out of a thermos on the road, on a park bench before work, in restaurants on the sly or during mornings when you had a moment and I still had time before my shift. I think of in particular of one evening. We had a few moments so I brewed up a pot of espresso. We heated the cups that night, which called for an extra burner. We took on that harsh pot and hit the road, took on Trader Joe's and headed home in the rain. You had a scare, saw a neighbor which I am sure took the edge off the fun. But I remember the thrill of slipping away that night, of driving off in the dark, of sitting in the parking lot waiting for that neighbor or business partner or whomever to go away. Palpatating hearts. Sweaty armpits. What a rush.
But it was the heated coffee cup we always came back to after that. I have two photos that go back and forth with, as far pictures I like to have up of you. One is of you slicing clafouti on your last day at work, the other is one where you came by in the morning. We had a staff meeting pending, and you rushed in to get a cup of coffee. I barely had time to press and shower and all that, but I brewed us up, and, in the midst of all that prepping, barechested I took a photo of us. The next one, for good or ill, didn't come out. Too bad. We always loved those smooching shots.
Those coffee cups are in our hands. They were warmed, slowly. The coffee was rushed, but, then again, so were we. We were all about time. Our time was fast paced, all the way down the line. So much a contrast to my mornings now. I wake, let in the cat, throw him some tuna, read the news online, sip my coffee from a heated cup. I look up at my denuded bookshelves and know that I'll be taking that ritual to some far off place fairly soon. Maybe my mornings will be graced with noise, then. Maybe I'll hear the footpads of my children waking, getting ready for school. Maybe I'll finally wise up and take on some new company, learn to live again.
But then, maybe, just maybe I'll need that quiet for a bit longer. Maybe I'll need that new space and that silence and that warm coffee cup to help get me through that upcoming novel. Maybe I'll need that quiet to channel into those coffee fueled moments we used to share, the ones, in the end, that were graced with slowly, softly warmed coffee mugs.
Your WHMB
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