morn

He stumbles down the stairs, steps on the cat, and turns the corner to the kitchen. The early sun falls varnished, glaring glorious and bitter on the solitary butcher block. Woodsoaked light, stabbing his eyes, pinching his teeth. The dry smell of sleeping air. Next to the block is the freezer. Reaching in, he paws for the waxy paper pouch, the nest of beans. Now it is out, and placed on the wood. Good. Without looking he shakes it, sees there are enough. Hopefully. Grinder plugged in, top removed, he clouds the air with the rich smell of earth, roast, poignant memory. Covering the steel teeth, he knuckles down the plastic top.

The grinding sound seems to saw at his skull, bringing the morning’s first oblique pleasure. The process has begun. Beans ground, filter in, water poured. The lovely red light. Soft and insistent. He can sense the water beginning to warm.

Padding over to the window, he stares at the harsh morning pastels. The nine o’clock crowd ambles by. He knows them well, but only as vague shapes on familiar trajectories. It is too early, of course, to make anything out.

Sits down, admiring the wall. Peaceful and white. Stained in places, but altogether fine. A good wall for the morning. A new crack in the paint, perhaps, or slid over from yesterday, hard to tell.

He could pour the coffee before it is done; the mechanical stop permits it. It seems wrong, though, to interrupt the flow. It’s far better to wait. Paining his teeth he watches the last few drops settle in the pot. Then he waits another minute, lost in his own still.

And finally, he moves to grab the first cup. Bitter and full; in a sense, alive. Or life-filling. And with the hot glaze coating his throat, blanching his gums, browning his teeth, he watches the wall take shape. Or fill out, really. Become fact. The stains and the cracks take on fantastic precision. It is all so reassuring, so certain, so lovely.

And so it goes for the next seven cups. He methodically drinks them, never rushing. There is a rhythm to his mornings; from morning to morning, and within each morning itself. A cup takes about ten minutes, with two minutes in between. The forward march from cup to cup is that of a mental custodian, sweeping sleep’s debris, collecting his scatterpaper thoughts into orderly piles. His muscles relax, his twitching abates, his resolve returns. He takes on gigantic proportions within his own body, a body becoming huge itself. He owns his arms and legs, he sees through his eyes. He is a unified whole, yet part of his room; he feels as real as the wall. He feels strangely ready.

Draining the last cup, he walks to the sink, rinses it out, puts it in the drainer. Checks to see that the red light is out – which, true to ritual, faded between cup six and cup eight. Strolls out of the kitchen to the front door, opening it to sunshine.

He steps through the door and greets the world, right on time. His traditional smiling nod parries his neighbor’s unfailing “Morning, son.” And he walks out of his home, carefully shutting the door, glancing at his watch, wondering how he will spend the lovely day.