The alarm went off a little early today, and I reminded Ryan that it was for him. There were 15 minutes of coffee grinding and getting dressed and chatting before he ran out the door, and I found myself here on my couch, curled up in a blanket but enjoying the cold of a new morning. It reminded me so much of so many mornings…

Mornings that ended last year, but that used to be the norm. An early alarm, and I would slip into the kitchen to prepare our brew — enough for our two big mugs. Then out to the porch, regardless of how chilly, with my Bible and journal. In a moment, she would join me. We would sip coffee together and survey the gardens, perhaps comment on them, perhaps just enjoy them, occasionally just shake our heads and silently wonder how they’d gotten to that weed-ridden state. She would stare into space and then tell about a daughter’s need for clothes, or what a son’s future might hold, or how maybe Daddy would let her buy some new paint for such-and-such project. I would usually just listen, smelling grass and drinking coffee, snuggled under my layer of warmth, secure.

I loved those mornings. They were the sort of thing that seemed so special that even at the time, I dared not take them for granted. It was the quiet of the morn, before the day’s invasion, and it was fellowship with one dearest to me.

I would sit and think how much I loved her (and wonder how in the world she rolled out of bed with vision already hatching in her imagination!)

Sooner or later, a little man would make his comical appearance, and our moment of quiet would be broken. She would leave the porch, and I would be left alone to quickly journal, or just to drink the last sip.

Of course, then there was a grown man who made his appearance, and our moments of quiet, day after day, became memories.

Dear memories, for sure. I still find myself sitting and thinking how much I love her.