Morning Ritual

A steady rain was falling, grasses greening beneath a smear of grey. 

Janie shadowed me as I took up a lighter and lit wicks on bookshelves and coffee tables, filling the house with a cozy glow. Then we both settled in the living room and waited for the water I'd set on the stovetop to boil, her tail an inconstant beat on the floor that quickened if I looked her way, accelerated when I addressed her, and died out whenever my attention drifted. 

My canine lady in waiting trailed me into the kitchen after the water had boiled and watched me pour coffee beans into the grinder (cowering as I reduced them to grounds in the noisy machine) and tap them into the French press.  I carefully poured steaming water over the grounds and stirred the mixture till it bloomed rich and foamy, then set it aside to steep. 

I stared out the kitchen window at the fat squirrels plundering Oma's birdfeeders and waited.  Meanwhile, Janie was sniffing the garbage closet, her tail wagging at least as enthusiastically as it had in response to my most affectionate tones--an observation guaranteed to keep me humble.

Four minutes later I returned to the counter. Janie padded across the kitchen to me and leaned her warm weight against my legs while I stood there and pressed down the plunger with my palm.

I poured myself that simple, essential thing: a cup of coffee. 

A steady rain was falling, grasses greening beneath a smear of grey, while I drank it lazily in the living room.