I’ll be honest. I don’t like growing old. But I like growing old with John.
John’s in charge of coffee. 99% of the time, he sets the pot for morning the night before. When I wake up, there’s usually a steamy mug waiting for me if he’s awake first. If it sat too long on the nightstand, the swirly mist above the mug is gone. At the very least, downstairs there’s an empty mug on deck with my name on it, right next to the pot. Sometimes if he left the house before I get up, he leaves an I love you note.
Marriage-wise, my picker was good.
Today’s my birthday and I just had to make my own coffee. But I’ve got to tell you, it’s really good. I can make it on my own if I have to. So yeah, I’m a feminist. The nice AirBNB lady showed me a new technique to brew one cup at a time and it’s rich and yummy. (Tangent: John and I watched a scene in Sneaky Pete a couple of weeks ago where a scary-bad-guy demonstrates this poor-over method. So this was like that only not scary and without anyone getting murdered.)
John’s back in SoCal paying the bills so I can stay longer in Portland bonding with my first grandson, Brooks. He’s only a couple of blocks away but I can smell his fresh baby scent from here.
Before John left for home, he was making coffee one morning here in this AirBNB and he told me that often when he fixes me a cup when we’re away from home, he remembers this one time when we were traveling, staying at a hotel which was connected to a casino bar where the coffee was brewed for hotel guests. The server asked John how he wanted the second cup (my cup) and John hesitated, unsure. The man sitting at the bar nursing a drink piped up, “After all these years, you don’t know how she likes her coffee?” John laugh/shrugged, “Well, it’s always different.”
Not exactly true, but sort of true. Sometimes if we’re traveling or out and the coffee is too strong, I’ll take a couple of sugars. It’s rare but it happens. The only time I don’t take cream is if I’m having espresso in Italy and I want to espress my coolness and impress the locals.
I do sometimes keep John guessing. Sometimes but not always. And it’s the same deal for me with him, I think. The important stuff is solid, bet-able, however.
As I sit here with my coffee alone, it just hit me: 1) How old I am this morning and 2) that I’m officially sleeping with grandpa now.
At the hospital last week, after Brooks was born, I was speechless—but of course that didn’t mean I didn’t talk. One of the things I said to John after looking at this tiny massive baby (nine pounds, eight ounces and two feet tall), was “We propagated!”
John and I have been told we were diapered next to one another in a church bathroom in Bell, California. That really could have happened. (I probably took one look and said, Yes, please.) My eldest sister, Barbara, says we took baths together, which, I think is a stretch. Point is, we started out together as babies and now we have a grandbaby.
How did this happen so fast?
In the best good book, James says, “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.”
It’s kind of like that mug on my nightstand. So with that in mind and heart, I shall savor it while I can…before our swirls head up toward heaven and we have the richest coffee ever.