Doctor said I’m supposed to start my day with a good breakfast. Last visit, my daughter had deposited a ten-pound bag of French roast beans on the kitchen table. Sweet girl. I brewed myself a cup, sliced myself a piece of challah and settled down before I caught a bus, inhaled the steam, the swirl of cream and coffee blending together in a whirlpool as my spoon clinked against the side of the mug; the repetitive sound put me in a meditative state the way coffee does in the early morning, stared out the window and took small sips, my finger perched on my lip, placed the mug back down on the oak table and counted the number of blue flowers stenciled along the outside of the mug, one leaf pointing to the next; I thought about all the years I’ve sat drinking coffee before it was time to leave, the clock hollering, “You’re late!” But after time, my resistance faltered, poured my coffee into an aluminum mug and took it with me in the car.
Heal our hearts.