How Blessed
Almost feels like a forbidden guilty pleasure
to sit across from my dad at the table,
sipping coffee as he browses motorcycles
on his iPad and I sift through tiny homes
for future design inspiration. We chat,
intermittently, as the heat starts to roll
across five acres of yard, grass that,
according to my dad, “aches to be cut.”
How blessed am I that most mornings
are spent like this, drinking in the day?
I find myself gazing too long across
the table, stirring my coffee idly
as I send mental memos to myself:
This is how my dad adjusts his trifocals
to read the fine print. This is how he takes
his second cup of coffee, almost black
with a touch of half-and-half. This is how
I feel, waking up to a spot at this table—
and I allow myself to both remember
everything and revel in these moments,
somehow all at the very same time.