Sunday Coffee Cup In your delicate depths, sink countless little things – thoughts and memories, pleasures, plans, regrets, hopes and dreams, swirl together, rippling, out through every Sunday, held here in my hand, warm and still so present. Before they cool, fade, I drink them down again
Coffee is a daily comfort and ritual. Warm, dark and rich, it is a true balm for my still sleepy spirit. Those rare mornings without my usual cup always feel strange and incomplete. One of the things I miss about living with another person is that sometimes they would make it first. But I have learned to adapt, and often now before bedtime, I set the coffeemaker to brew automatically in the mornings so I can still wake up to the smell. Sundays, in particular, seem to hold a kind of reverence for me. Maybe because it falls at the end of the week, and so is the last day to review and relive, and ponder what’s yet to come.