Morning Ritual

The coffee maker gurgles at 6:47. Not because the timer says so, but because he's been awake since 6:12, lying still, listening to the house remember itself. The floorboards know his weight. They creak in the same places his father's footsteps wore smooth, decades before this kitchen was his. He pours the first cup and doesn't drink it right away. He holds it. Lets the warmth pass through ceramic into palm into bloodstream into something like hope. Outside, the neighbor's dog has completed her own ritual—three circles before settling on the same patch of grass. We are all creatures of repetition, he thinks. We find our grooves and wear them deeper. The coffee grows cold. He drinks it anyway. Lukewarm is fine when you're not drinking it for the temperature.