In the mornings I wake up, spend time shuffling
side-to-side at the sink, stove, counter, tinkering
with coffee paraphernalia. This Saturday morning,
the boys woke up and wanted to talk, talk, talk.
I don’t like talking in the morning – don’t like
engaging with anyone else’s thoughts but my
own. I told them so, shooed them away, and
they chirped on together, Hot Wheels preoccupied.
The water seeped slowly through the grinds and filter,
so I hurried it along, squeezed it through, added milk,
took my cup outside for a quiet moment on
the front porch. I breathed to see if my breath
would linger – to test if it was that kind of cold
outside. On the third try, peripheral vision revealed
a faint white mist trickling from my lips. I went inside,
found my gospel of Mark, turned on the light
above the couch in hopes of finding focus, a
moment by myself with God. But it was too late, my
mind filled with the business of that one quick, but
catching look at my social media apps and
the song-draft brother Victor sent in Whatsapp.
I caved-in to demands, reloaded my Dunkin’ balance.
With flip-flops on and purse in hand, I told the
hopeful son that, maybe, I was going for doughnuts.