response to "allowing myself to dream"

yearn post prompted by another yearn post

I love this time of year. There’s the perfect amount of gentle sunlight illuminating the kitchen, and most importantly the counter with the coffee equipment. Even the sun’s position relative to the window seems to respect the slow and quiet morning’s mood. I say a quiet prayer, reiterating my gratitude for the person I know will soon join me as part of the ritual. As I do, a deep warmth settles in, which I suppose is a combination of the sun, the soft pullover she bought for me that I have now donned, and a soul-permeating sense of peace. I take a deep breath in to savor the moment as I stand at the counter. As I breathe out, the soft noise of my exhale is eclipsed by a gentle rustle I hear coming from the bedroom. She doesn’t know she does it, but a few minutes before she properly wakes up, she always does a quarter roll in bed. The sound of blankets slightly shifting is my cue to start making her drink.

One of the first questions I asked was her coffee order, and I knew I would remember it as easily as my own name the second it left her lips. But I wrote it down anyway, along with what must be over a hundred other things about her, just in case.

Her favorite mug is the one I made for her at that pottery class we took when we had just started dating. Or, more accurately, the one I made with her because the mug would have been an amorphous blob without her gentle hands guiding mine as the clay spun in front of us. But I can proudly say that I painted the snoopy on the front entirely myself. Every time I remove mug from the drying rack, that memory resurfaces—complete with the smell of wet clay and acrylic paint—until the scent of of fresh coffee beans and noise of the grinder refocus me on the task at hand. Since that mug cannot be duplicated for obvious reasons, I always make my coffee drink (which happens to be the exact same as hers, I love all of the little things like that about us) in her second favorite mug. I’ve picked up this habit just in case she likes the taste of mine better, so she only has to downgrade slightly if we exchange cups.

Yesterday, as I was riding the train home, I pulled my book out from my bag intending to complete the last two chapters, only to return it seconds later when I realized that we could both finish our books together the next morning if I waited. (Another little thing I love is how we always sit quietly together as we read, finding it possible to savor both the words and each others company that way). As I tucked the book back away, my ring caught my eye. Though a recent addition to my finger, it felt as though it had been there forever even if I couldn’t yet see it. I remembered the way she looked at hers that morning, smiling as she spun it around her finger. Though it was hours old, that smile remained infectious. I was no doubt beaming because I knew she found as much joy in the shiny, round reminder of our promises to each other as I did. Fellow passengers probably assumed my expression was simply a result of it being 5:23pm on a Friday.

Her coffee is done, and I figure she must be enjoying a few extra minutes of sleep this morning. I think I’ll pick up my book while I wait for the of freshly brewed coffee’s smell to make it into the bedroom and draw her out of bed.

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Much of this post is a sort of response to or “other person’s perspective” on a post written earlier tonight by M. Metzler, so go check that out!

Thanks for yearning with me <3