SHE IS NOT A MORNING PERSON Mid-morning and my dog Hanna and I have been up for hours. Hanna is now lying under the kitchen table at my feet. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs and my wife shuffles into the kitchen, zombie-like in her fuzzy pink slippers, wearing one of my long blue flannel shirts that I don’t remember giving up. Her hair is pulled back from her freshly washed face, and it’s way too early for contact lenses. Her thick glasses are perched on her nose, helping her still sleepy eyes navigate the kitchen. The dog rises from the floor, does a long stretch and moves to greet her. Closing in on four decades together, I know better than to try to engage her in any meaningful conversation at this hour. “Morning,” I say. “Morning,” she says, her vocal cords not wanting to go to work just yet. She likes the sun to get good and warm before she has to talk. She pats the dog on the head without further comment. I watch her move to one of the cabinets and remove a bowl and a coffee mug. World’s Greatest Mom is today’s selection. She pops a coffee pod into the Keurig and pulls the toaster out of the center island and plugs it in. She gently deposits some silverware on the kitchen table, not wanting to make any noise. She tears open and dumps an envelope of instant oatmeal into the bowl with some water, punches the keypad and the microwave comes to life. Soon a quarter cup of frozen blueberries from Costco will wait patiently near the toaster. From the fridge, she grabs a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. The fake butter will soon be meticulously painted, with Vincent Van Gogh accuracy, on two slices of whole wheat bread that are now in the toaster going through their transformation. The smell of crispy crumbs on the bottom of the toaster fills the kitchen along with, I’m guessing, cinnamon and brown sugar oatmeal. The microwave calls to her. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! 26
4 P.M. COUNT