I wake up every morning at the crack of dawn. Many times, even before dawn has cracked. Not purposely. It just happens. I’m a morning lark and not in any way a night owl.
Silently, I wend my way to the kitchen to start a fresh pot of coffee all the while taking care of quiet, insignificant chores as I go along that I had overlooked the night before in my comatose state.
Clicking and snorting, the coffee begins to brew. Then the dog wants some loving and a much-needed trip outside. Next, burly son #2 is up, armed with a long, hardy hug and an exaggerated recap of whatever madcap dream he may, or often, I suspect, may not have had during the night.
And then, finally, after all of the commotion has settled down, it’s coffee time.
My best friend and I sit in the living room: I on the couch, the dog curled up beside me, he in the double-wide stuffed armchair, and we sip and talk about big things and small things and sometimes half-baked things that really don’t even deserve mention, but that have been brewing in our heads for hours and just come pouring out.
My confidant in the chair helped me through some very rough times with extended family a few years back that would have crushed me, frankly, had it not been for his strength and love and unwavering support. For that, I will be forever grateful. I, in return, have listened to more recaps of decidedly unfunny comedians (how is it that they’re still employed?) and ‘90’s throwback spy thrillers, and sports broadcasts than I care to remember. And I’m sure he’s grateful for that as well.
My husband wasn’t in the double-wide stuffed armchair this morning. He was away on business, which is, thankfully, an uncommon occurrence.
I missed his smile, his support, and his touch.
I missed our coffee time.
It’s something little that I love.