My husband makes me coffee

Todd-OrientalMy husband makes me coffee every morning.

But not just that.

He mail orders the finest beans and grinds them fresh, seconds before plunging them into boiling water. The idea of an overnight timer is sacrilege to him. We are talking quality coffee here.

But not just that.

He delivers it to me in bed. Every weekday, I wake up not to an alarm, but to him opening the blinds and placing on my nightstand a steaming mug of coffee. (The mug has been pre-warmed with boiling water, so as not to cool the precious liquid within.)

He’s been doing this every day for about 14 years. It is expected. I don’t know anymore if he does it out of devotion or habit. Sometimes, I forget to appreciate it.

And then I am reading a blog post or having a conversation with another woman, and she makes an offhand reference to stumbling downstairs in the morning, bleary-eyed, to brew the coffee. I am jarred.

She makes her own coffee? I feel a stab of pity for her, being left at the mercy of the morning like that.

I realize then that my coffee is so much more than coffee. It’s a ritual makes me feel safe, protected, in some fundamental way. I hate to imagine the day that my cup of coffee will no longer appear, like a miracle at my bedside at the start of each day.

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