He's here and he has brought Cuties

I want coffee at this time and hour

but I dare not tell him, as I'm sure he'd appease me and serve me a cup made just the way I like it.

Then who would rise to find my mother visiting the beach in the morning?

Not I, or maybe not we. Unless our bed was transported to the shore.

One can hope.

For now he brings me Cuties. It's peculiar how his thick, painted and stained hands, wrapped in muscle larger than the average man's, delicately removes and separates the tiny pieces to make them bite size for my tiny, almost child-like mouth. He's aware of my tedious chewing.

Unaware of his own carefulness and perfection of such a task, these moments are who make him who he is, and his portrait is once again painted in my heart.