I rise first on weekends,
Heat the kettle for tea, prepare my cup with honey,
Curse at the insistent whistle (I once had a teakettle that sounded like an approaching train)
Read while the tea is steeping.
I hear her stirring,
Grind the coffee beans (if I do the grinding myself I can handle the noise)
Twelve scoops, each more heaping than the last (She likes her coffee strong, hot and ready when she gets up. I'm glad she doesn't hold her men to the same high standard)
I sip and slurp my steaming tea and honey. I no longer believe the caffeine does anything for me,
But the ritual prepares me for whatever will come my way.
She finally rises, drinks, makes lists, prepares for the day in her own way.
Eventually we talk and touch.
There is nothing in my life that seems critical, no life and death decisions,
And so a second cup of tea is in order.
The house is cold but I don't mind. I'll get moving eventually.
I will start my mornings like this from now on.
