Wake up to one cat yelling about his empty belly, or the other silently hooking one paw in my hair and yanking. Find my robe, go downstairs. Lights on, kettle on, shoes on to take the dog outside.
Feed the loud cat first, though, or he’ll get louder.
Outside, how awake is the morning? Are the birds singing yet? What pastel shade is the sky between starlight and sunlight? What is that smell? I am the only person on the street. This moment is mine to be in and I want to notice everything. Nothing will ever be exactly the same again.
Will the dog please decide if he wants to keep walking or go home?
Inside. The loud cat tries to trick me into feeding him again. The dog eats his vitamins but not his breakfast, then settles in to guard his kibble.
The quiet cat has taken her place in her preferred breakfast spot—the toddler’s playpen upstairs—and chirps at me like she’s trying to flag down the wait staff at a restaurant. She takes her kibble with a dental treat and a shot of insulin in the side, then saunters off so she can demand another two bites at her convenience. It will most likely be inconvenient for me.
My husband says the coffee is ready. He takes his black. I take mine with drama.
Big mug only, or the proportions will require math. Stevia, then coconut milk. Microwave for 45 seconds of wishing I could drink black coffee without the acidity making me sick. Look up at the cabinet labeled “ghosts” and smile. Where else do you keep the booze?
Give the milk frother a couple of test buzzes before dunking it into the mug. Giggle impishly and remember getting my mom to call it a “milk fluffer” in public.
Pour coffee over fluffed milk. Bring the bubbles all the way to the top. Remember dazzling my husband with a casual use of the word “meniscus.”
“Suspicious hibiscus meniscus,” I mutter for the sound.
“Did you say something?” my husband asks.
“Nope.”
One piece of almond biscotti to go with my coffee—an exception to my general dislike of almonds. Sustenance for mood and a romantic spirit more than a hungry stomach.
Dip. Crunch. Read.
Something. Anything, as long as it’s delightful. A few pages in a chapter I’m reading, the new episode of a webcomic, an email from someone who actually writes from their perspective instead of trying to drag you down a funnel. Not the news. Not yet.
Outrage and resistance after coffee. There must still be time for mystery and silliness and appreciation for all the little things that are still good. I can’t see new worlds to create if I stop noticing this one.
Wake up the senses to what is good. Hold onto them until it’s time for bed again.
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