Coffee Hour

It’s five-thirty in the morning when I slide out of bed as my husband sleeps. Quietly, I shuffle down the hall, careful not to bump the oak sideboard that hides the ripped wallpaper I need to replace. I’m wearing my winter robe, the crimson velvet one with the gold rope trim. Bought on clearance last fall (alongside two pairs of back-to-school-shoes), it’s the most opulent item of clothing I own, and makes me feel more like a Hollywood star on a spa retreat than a frenzied mother of two children under six.

I sneak past my kids’ bedrooms and down the stairs, tiptoeing like a burglar. The kitchen is silent, except for the drip of brewing coffee. Last night, I pre-set the pot, as I always do. This is my ritual. Two cups of caffeinated joy in quick succession, and an unfolded newspaper each morning, when the world exists only for me.

While the coffee brews, I walk to the front door, pulling my robe taut, covering the bare skin beneath. I flush at a memory from decades ago, when my husband unwrapped me like a gift.

I open the front door and wince as the creaking hinges echo inside. I need to grease them. The icy air widens my eyes. A white blanket criss-crossed with fresh deer prints hides the dying lawn. I sigh as my slippers brush the slate porch; I’d forgotten that snow was predicted. Once, I would have run naked through it on a dare. Twice, I did. Did I ever tell my family that story?

Out here, the world sleeps wrapped in a snowy hush, but I don’t have much time to contemplate its beauty. I don’t have much time at all. A thud sounds from somewhere above. The house is waking. My minutes are disappearing.

I close the front door and retreat into the warmth of the kitchen, open the cupboard, and reach for my favourite mug. It’s not really my favourite—the handle is too small and the lip too big—but I say it is, to make my kids smile, to make them happy. They bought it with their own money for my birthday last year.

The rich smell of coffee is strong. I pour until it’s just below the brim, leaving space for two tablespoons of cream. Gripping the warm mug, I bring it to my lips, inhale the nutty scent, close my eyes.

The day will begin soon. But this moment is all mine.

Before I can take a sip, flat feet patter up behind me. She jumps, and tiny fingers pull at my waist. I turn, and he is there, too, pressing his messy copper hair against my belly. I bend down and inhale their sweet sleep-stained scent.

We couldn’t sleep anymore, they say. It snowed, they say. No school! Homemade donuts? Please. Please. Pretty please.

The world no longer exists only for me. 

With a soft sigh, I slip into their moment, begin their morning ritual. A cup of milk for him. A glass of orange juice for her. Bread in the toaster, oil in the pan for donuts. My mug alone on the counter, my newspaper unopened. My coffee growing cold.