In gravitational pull, there is an hour when the foggy reflecting pond helps me gather jumbled thoughts. So out the door past creaking board, I'm quiet in grandmother's long, now beltless aqua chenille robe. I never like the feel as it drags in tatters behind me through the dew. Yet, I go out the same way each morning. I remember her talking to me as I do.

Resisting the smell of a neighbor's breakfast, I know I'm welcome to the fresh coffee poured, and his thick newspaper. I could slip-out and over to a side door at first dove's coo. Instead, I beeline to the old garden to pick a bright bouquet. Something bright I'll arrange over toast with guava and juice while humming, alone.

Each morning while they bloom, I bring a bouquet of violets in, and fret over their arrangement in an old crazed glaze bluewillow cup. I fill it with violets to the brim while draining the contents of a fresh cup of coffee. Instant. I've punished myself with the swill since you've been gone. I don't even remember where the real coffeepot is now.

continued....

(c) 2003 Ali Cecilie Sonder aka Rennie Lorca