An Ode to the Morning Person’s Little Helper
Every morning when I wake up, you’re there. Sure, you take a little coaxing to come out of your shell. You need to be warmed up, stirred, and caressed into waking up. But when you do wake up, you stir in me all sorts of wonderful ways.
There is more to you than just oils, diterpines, and antioxidants. You represent more than just a vehicle for the world’s favorite stimulant. You are potentiality incarnate— hot black potentiality, steaming right into the air under my nose. I inhale, and go from 0 to 60.
When my lips touch you, you always give, never ask or take. You are an undying font of inspiration, optimism, gumption. You nudge, ever so gently, but oh so effectively — even if I do not end up going anywhere.
Our time together is short, but we make the most of it. Me — the reluctant early riser. You — the eternal source of hope and newness each day. The sun may get all the credit, but in my world, you kick the day off in the dark well before that lazy ass celestial body is even beginning to rise and shine.
You, first cup, you anoint the day with glory — though often it may quickly fade. For that perfect few minutes, all is manageable, all is in order, all is right. The feeling will fade, but so does everything. Should not I continue to partake in you, so you can remind me of that impermanence? Such will be my excuse, a way to justify my lustful fumbling through the dark hours.
As the day closes, I lament on all that was not done. But I grin slyly, looking forward to our time together in but a few short hours. I will emerge from slumber, resembling a hibernating bear. You will be there, waiting, for our dance to begin.
I will let you lead. I insist.
