Shoulders and arms, bones carved from hickory, rawed by fire. I sleep between three and four hours a night. I don’t know, because time is mud. I sit at the kitchen table until Connie comes down, and she complains when the coffee pot is dry. She taught me how to make a fresh pot. Everything is on the counter: the filter, the Folgers, the measuring spoon. I make a second pot for her when I hear the creaking floorboards. I am mostly neat, but it takes all my concentration, and my hands are still clumsy. But I do it. She growls when there are grounds in her cup or when the floor is splashed. Then do it yourself, I growl back. Do siblings ever stop being children towards each other?
The hours between pots of coffee are long. Continue reading Between pots of coffee