He likes the mayonnaise on both sides of the bread.
I learned this early on in the honeymoon-days as I watched him assemble a Sunday afternoon snack. Then follows deli mustard-causing the gooshy-condiment layers to become a bit too slip for the following spinach, ham and turkey, and cheese. He’d prefer pepperjack, but I find only American in the meat drawer. Not a real cheese mind you, but stashed away after he bought it for quick sandwiches while I was not there to do the slicing and wrapping of block cheese…
It’s a good sandwich, despite the cheese change up, and I put it aside for him to take as he sweeps through to the door, stairs, ignition switch and back up lights.
The pot of decaf, full pot, begins to spit and sputter its last filling as I pull pink and white Starbuck’s emblazoned mug from the cupboard. Mine. I wash it and put it back each day after coffee, then tea, fill its wide, deep capacity to content me in the morning hours…
Juggling pink mug, warm heated pillows for my too cold toes, and phone where I’m reading the first blush of morning devotion, I ascend the stairs. To my space.
I have claimed territory not intentionally mind you-as if TRISH embroidered onto each one would make it any more decisive-on more than just this space: My side of the bed. My towels. My sink. My hook for keys and of course, my studio. But, that comes later.
My space.
It used to be all of upstairs; my bedroom and bath. My wonderfully large closet. My window looking into the sunset. My space.
But now a portion of the top level have been reliquated to sharing and my space is all that remains exclusive; and even this is visited by invited guests on occasion.
My space. A room carved into the back of my peaked roof second story where the delight of two short doors for attic access still swirls my grown up sensibilities. When I first chose this house, and ventured back into the depths of these attic nooks, imagining my ‘old’ art and Christmas boxes beginning to fill the cavity, I found one small child’s shoe. An oddity; a small disturbance, then a delicious mystery. Some time in this homes past a child used this space as her space; retreating to play and visit with the friends only she knew of. The lost shoe remaining always lost to her mother who knew nothing of this blessed use of small-doored space….
My space; my chair.
I learned this early on in the honeymoon-days as I watched him assemble a Sunday afternoon snack. Then follows deli mustard-causing the gooshy-condiment layers to become a bit too slip for the following spinach, ham and turkey, and cheese. He’d prefer pepperjack, but I find only American in the meat drawer. Not a real cheese mind you, but stashed away after he bought it for quick sandwiches while I was not there to do the slicing and wrapping of block cheese…
It’s a good sandwich, despite the cheese change up, and I put it aside for him to take as he sweeps through to the door, stairs, ignition switch and back up lights.
The pot of decaf, full pot, begins to spit and sputter its last filling as I pull pink and white Starbuck’s emblazoned mug from the cupboard. Mine. I wash it and put it back each day after coffee, then tea, fill its wide, deep capacity to content me in the morning hours…
Juggling pink mug, warm heated pillows for my too cold toes, and phone where I’m reading the first blush of morning devotion, I ascend the stairs. To my space.
I have claimed territory not intentionally mind you-as if TRISH embroidered onto each one would make it any more decisive-on more than just this space: My side of the bed. My towels. My sink. My hook for keys and of course, my studio. But, that comes later.
My space.
It used to be all of upstairs; my bedroom and bath. My wonderfully large closet. My window looking into the sunset. My space.
But now a portion of the top level have been reliquated to sharing and my space is all that remains exclusive; and even this is visited by invited guests on occasion.
My space. A room carved into the back of my peaked roof second story where the delight of two short doors for attic access still swirls my grown up sensibilities. When I first chose this house, and ventured back into the depths of these attic nooks, imagining my ‘old’ art and Christmas boxes beginning to fill the cavity, I found one small child’s shoe. An oddity; a small disturbance, then a delicious mystery. Some time in this homes past a child used this space as her space; retreating to play and visit with the friends only she knew of. The lost shoe remaining always lost to her mother who knew nothing of this blessed use of small-doored space….
My space; my chair.
But, I’m still ascending. Taking the first, too hot sip of delicious blond roast; burning away the nights intake and outflow as it spills down my throat and into my brain with a sharp-not harsh good morning. I prefer my coffee cooled; but I always take it-that first, too hot sip to awake my day…
It’s 3am. Any later and I’m late. Not for anything. Not for anyone. Just for me. Just in my way. I begin early.
In my chair.