Cold winter mornings, too early

I hobble down the stairs, inching my hips to move down and forward.  Wrapping my arms around my middle from the cold, I squint into the kitchen brightness.

My oldest is up and ready for his day.  I mumble greetings and make eye contact.  He's not hungry.  As I make coffee, pouring the pot full of tap water into the rear reservoir, he reiterates that he wants nothing for breakfast.  After measuring out the aromatic coffee grounds and punching the brew button, I wait for the warm energy.  My patience is tested each morning.  We might have the slowest coffee maker in the world.

My teenager leaves out the patio door as the clock hits 6:00am.  I retrieve my cup, creamer, and a spoon in anticipation of the morning goodness wafting out in steamy tendrils, waking my senses and sense of humor.  By the time I've perfected my predawn treat, my husband loudly tromps down the six steps from upstairs.  I smile his way, and he wraps me in his arms.  I reach around grasping my left wrist with my right hand.  He's brought the warmth from the bed downstairs with him.  As I release him from the hold I have, he kisses the top of my head, then turns, grinning, to get his own mug of morning.

A new day to welcome and conquer.