There’s a grass stained coffee maker on the counter. Every morning it gets fed fifty-one point five grams of ground up coffee beans. From there, the machine performs its magic and spits out exactly twenty-seven point five ounces of black gold. This happens every day. It is a coffee flavored clock.
A ritual. A behavior. A measure of time.
Twenty-six years without alcohol today. Grateful for the path I chose. Grateful for the fruit this tree has born.
Buzzer beater alarm clock sand. Backyard bushes through the trees in the back room. Shirts hanging over chairs. Fan spinning through the ceiling. Morning music confused with the basement tunes and all that time on the trainer. Meditate. Sit with nothing. Put the phone down and accept.
Let it go.