The morning’s dark and quiet, lit up only by the whiteness of the snow. I make my way back to my own home, down the driveway, down the road, up to my own doorsill.
The kitchen’s empty, smells of coffee and raisin bread toast; the man has already left for work. I lay down the laptop case, take off my gloves and hat, realize I left my glasses at my neighbor’s where I’d spent the night sleeping on her couch in case she needed help during the night. She’s had more surgery on her knee–minor, but just another step into the problems age does bring.
And on the fridge, a love note hangs. He must have missed me though I notice that he’s remembered to take the sandwich I made up for him before I left last night.
Oh my! My place is taken on the couch! Griz is sitting in my spot and there’s the book I should’ve taken with me since my neighbor doesn’t have wireless.
I pour a cup of fresh-brewed coffee–it is weak and watery. Fifteen minutes later I find out why. He put the water in, thinking I’d forgotten. Ten cups of water over day-old grinds.
Routines are good and comforting; more comforting is the sense of how the world becomes a strange place with a single blip of upset.