Sweet love, the little light switch on the stove broke as I made coffee this morning. Faithful thing. It did its job without fail for more than 40 years. It reminded me of our relationship. What I hope our relationship will be.
But just now when I flipped it it felt listless and broken, like the head of a flower dangling from its snapped stalk. You were still asleep, and in the dark I fumbled through the ritual of coffee – grind, tamp, pull and pour – and delivered a mug to your dreaming hand.
Enviable devotion. I hope forty years from now I’ll drop this same dented mug into your hand, watch the sun bleed through stoic spruce and remember the dogs, our faithful companions, who’ve passed. The squirrels we named, who’ve passed, the bull snake and the rat, our ancient neighbors and the family that passes like a river around us.
Hurry now and get up – this job will be more fun with two. The hardware store and its old men, a new switch made in China. The two of us sitting close on the bench seat of an old truck, on a beautiful morning in November.