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.
