Morning Coffee

The space between the first chime of the alarm and first cup of coffee is occupied by several attempts at snoozing and finally, a haze dense as the proverbial San Francisco fog. Thick and heavy, my thoughts still swirling in murky dreams.

It is a scene from the Night of The Living Dead. One foot on the floor, then the other, stiff as boards and creaky. Left-then-right-then-left-then-right. Crick-then-crack. Out of bed and into the shower.

Weekday mornings are tortuous rituals. Waking up with somewhere to go. It is not--never!--Christmas morning even on Christmas. Somewhere in the space of childhood and long-forgotten school days, I grew up. It was insidious, this growing up business. But there is work and a job and all that messy stuff our parents warned us about. Payback.

So once the shower's over, and the joints loosen up a bit, I make my coffee. At first sip, I am Sisyphus again, ready to roll that rock.