While the Coffee Cools

Our tiny kitchen, flooding with morning light

I wake before the house.

Downstairs, our tiny, cozy living room is still dark. The espresso machine Dan surprised me with ten years ago rumbles into the silence as I turn it on. The aroma of freshly ground coffee fills the air as I make my daily flat white, my body moving through steps so familiar I barely think about them.

The mug warms my hands. The mornings have gotten colder.

I curl into my chair, light a candle, and take that first sip of warm, frothy comfort. My almost fifteen-year-old cat settles into my lap. His soft purring is now the only sound breaking the silence.

Sitting there, chilly but gradually warming, I feel a deep, indescribable gratitude.

For my legs, which carried me down the stairs. For my eyes, which take in the candle’s glow. For the weight and warmth of this old cat, and another morning together.

I open my journal. Mindfulness and writing have become daily practices that help quiet my overactive mind and ground my day in what matters to me.

As I write, the sun rises. At first, a few rays peek through the leaves of the neighbor’s oak tree. Eventually, the light streams in so brightly that my face is warm and my eyes begin to squint. I welcome it.

Then come the soft footsteps of my younger son, moving through his room above me and down the stairs.

Sleepily, he climbs into my lap. The cat knows his turn is up and curls into the chair beside us.

I put my journal aside and wrap my son in my arms and a blanket. For now, he is still small enough for his head, covered in the soft curls he inherited from me, to tuck beneath my chin.

I let out a deep, involuntary sigh of tranquil appreciation.

We are all here. Safe and relatively healthy. The day will be busy, but I won’t be rushing to arrange a hospice bed for someone I love.

This tiny home, with its never-ending list of projects, is ours. Safe and warm.

Across the room, half-finished paintings stare back from my makeshift studio, begging to be finished. How fortunate I am to have the supplies, the desire to make something, and occasional time to do it.

This year has changed what I notice.

After recently losing someone we love, I find myself noticing things I once moved through without much thought.

Simply waking up healthy feels like the gift of a day. Having my son close enough to feel his warmth, with nowhere I need to hurry for a few minutes, feels beyond precious.

That awareness follows me into our work.

When we walk through an old home, there are details to study, repairs to consider, decisions to make. I also find myself wondering where someone likes to sit. Which room gets the morning sun. What they have grown to love about living there.

Those things matter when we help a family renovate, or work to preserve the familiar details of a home. We are caring for places where people spend their days, raise their children, and find comfort in routines they may have followed for years.

I understand that a little more deeply now.

Here in our own living room, there are still projects waiting. Soon, there will be breakfast to make and somewhere to be.

But my son is warm beneath the blanket, his curls tucked under my chin.

For a little while, I stay.

These quietly luxurious moments are the ones I am grateful for beyond words.

I am not skilled, talented or trained. This little corner holds so much meaning.

This porch swing has cradled us through so many good days and bad. It’s a simple thing of beauty to me.

The corner I curl up in each morning.