Our ritual each morning is this: he pads barefooted to the kitchen. He is a fast waker-upper; I am not. Even though my eyes are still closed, I follow along by listening to the sounds he makes. I hear the shoosh of the water from the tap going into the tea kettle, and the click of him turning on the stove. He tends to favor the burner at the back of the stove to the right, while I am partial to the front burner on the left. With the water set to boil in a bright turquoise-colored kettle that I bought one day when I was feeling sad and drab, he crosses over to the far end of the living room where I hear him lower himself to the ground where he does pushups on a mat. I wonder how many pushups he does? (I like to imagine that he does this to impress me.) By the last pushup, there is a deep, rolling sound coming from inside the kettle. Despite its lovely, calming color, that kettle has a shrill, ear-piercing whistle that makes it sound like it’s announcing a tornado. But he is ready, poised nearby to flip the lid up at the first hint of the steam-fueled scream.
By now, I’ve opened my eyelids just a tad to take in the minimum, necessary data. Is it cloudy or sunny outside? What time is it?
The next part of the ritual happens in a rhythm that never deviates. The coffee grounds are measured carefully, the kettle is lifted and tips, and hot water spills and spatters into the glass carafe of our French press, sounding alive and boisterous, like it can’t wait to fulfill its destiny. He gives it a stir, and even then, the water has taken on a richer tone, now that it is joined in holy matrimony to the coffee bean. He presses down, pushing the grounds to the bottom, and the cabinet opens, where I know he’s taking out his favorite blue mug, and mine, which is the same bright color as the tea kettle.
He takes his coffee black, not wanting to corrupt the full coffee flavor. I, on the other hand, don’t mind a little corruption in the form of a splash of milk and sugar.
My eyelids are feeling less heavy now. The good smells of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of his bare feet padding up the hall toward me are enough to lure me into a sitting position.
This is the way each day starts with my gentleman friend. Even though I like nights and he likes mornings, we find and protect this precious little sliver of each day.
These peaceful moments are my charging station. My inner battery builds up a reserve of energy to face another day and all the decisions and dilemmas that come with it. How lucky I am, that each morning, he greets me with a smile and leans toward me with this sacred offering in a coffee cup.
This is our ritual. This is the way he entices me into waking up — to reluctantly start each day. And every day, without fail, it surprises and delights me.
