The coffee maker is a riot of sound, of gargling: it’s the Fourth of July climax when it sounds off and beeps three times, declaring it’s done.

I’ve been through the ritual that starts by the light of the closet, over the sink, then onto the shower, back by the closet, the dresser drawer, then downstairs. All timed to meet the coffee maker, prepare my day with food, enter my day, then exit. It folds over on itself like socks in a drawer, each day.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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