A ritual. Up early. I crack the eggs. She whisks. She toasts the bread. I grab the peanut butter. No words yet. The coffee hasn’t been poured. Shoulders brush. A reach around for the black pepper. She lets me hug her while she’s trapped by the sticky spot on the floor by the stove.
I grab the plates. She grabs the Sriracha. Chairs pulled to the table. Dig in.
We talk. About weird dreams with cows on porches, giant spiders and pirate ships. About spending a summer in Paris. Looking oh so Parisian sipping cafe au lait at an outdoor cafe. She talks about her plan to live in a house made of French doors. Where I can come visit her. But only for long weekends. A short vacation from the nursing home.
Chewing and chatting and chuckling. Before the day has started the best part has already happened.