Mr. Matter's Morning

He couldn’t quite remember waking. It felt a bit like losing hold of a dream. No matter. He opened his eyes wide to to greet the not-quite-dark dawn. He’d read a book once that had called it, like its twin the dusk, a crack between two worlds. A place of magic. Magic? Maybe. But special certainly. Dusk and dawn were the only times the creatures of the day, and the denizens of night, passed one another, like ecological shift workers.

He stretched, sniffed, and recognized the smell of coffee in the air. It was comforting. It called to him. It meant new days, new opportunities, and was a quiet reminder of comforting routine. Even more than the big house itself, the coffee meant home. It was reliable, constant. And it meant dad was already up and out and likely halfway to work already. Of that you could be sure. He could not recall the man ever taking a day off. Him and his car. He loved that car.

Coffee was made in the kitchen. A lot happened in the kitchen. He probably spent half his life in the kitchen, he mused. He and JoAnne. She’d always insisted on grinding the coffee from beans. Maxwell House would have been sufficient for him.

He was easing into this morning’s cup, but then paused. Way at the back of his notice, almost too quiet, he heard the baby waking. Hmmm, he thought absently; the baby had slept late today. That was a break. It had seemed like months since anyone had slept for more than a few hours at a time. Perhaps this was the start of a new baby behavior pattern. Of course, it wasn’t. Infants don’t seem to understand the rules. But all that extra sleep meant JoAnne would have gotten more sleep than usual; she would get to him if he if needed changing. She always did. She had a sixth sense about that kind of stuff.

His son. The essence of his love for life made manifest, bundled with the ability to drive him crazy. He recalled it is said our families can press our buttons as easily as they can because they installed them. He can’t recall where he heard it, but he would have to agree. Kids, the best of times, the worst of times.

His lips parted and a deep sigh escaped. Coffee was a relaxing pick me up. Interesting that it could be both. That was especially true after that first sip, made more satisfying because of the promise of another, and another. Even the mug itself, warm in his cold hands, was familiar and comforting. He wished he could line up all the mugs he’d ever called favorite. It wouldn’t be especially long in length, but it would be deep in meaning: the mug dad gave him for college, the one Joanne gave him when they moved in together that read “I’m the smart one” — and she was. And of course the “Best Dad!” Father’s Day mugs — they may be the best.

Looking up, he glanced out the window, seeing just a corridor of yard opening out to a view of the neighbor’s place a strong stone’s throw away. He could just see the dog’s tail wagging, Buck the dog, mid-way across in the grass. It seemed he was pulling on something just out of sight. He smiled; that animal has as much energy as those boys. On cue, the dog won the battle. But the boy doesn’t let go, and suddenly there’s Buck the dog dragging a little boy shooting across the grass right in front of the window. The grass stains will be head to toe. But there will be no tears this time. He laughs hard and thinks, “I’ll never forget that”. He laughs a little, and let’s it trail off into a smile and shake of his head.

He brings the coffee to his lips again. He blows a bit on it, then brings it closer again, assessing the temperature and comparing it with his tolerance for pain. He thinks: “There’s a balance. Luke warm is not satisfying. Scalding is — scalding. It should almost hurt, but be tolerable.” Too soon, too little patience, and the scalding would leave a blister that reminded him of his folly for a week. To long, and the luke warm slug would hit all wrong. At that point it would be best to dump the whole cup and start over. Absently, he wonders, “if only starting over were always that easy...”

He can hear Joanne now fussing in the other room. He can imagine her in there, busy. She always works so hard. She was never done. She was more than he deserved, and the luckiest thing that ever happened to him, in a lucky life — a very lucky life. A very lucky life. He should probably lend a hand. She’d appreciate it. He silently promises himself: “I’m definitely going to do that.”

But coffee calls now. Coffee time is sacred. There are rituals that have to be respected. Some patterns must play out. Some through lines can’t be dismissed.

He hears the front door open, a rush through the door, and then the sound of loud voices. Three separate voices that sound a bit like what he thinks drunken sailors must sound like, but are in fact his son’s friends — the three amigos. No doubt they’re here to play games, eat everything in the house like the locusts they are, and then head out like tom cats to prowl the neighborhood and worry the neighbors.

It was time. The coffee had reached its temperature perfection. He takes that one biggish gulp that doesn’t burn, isn’t cold, and hits the spot perfectly. No other like it will be available until tomorrow morning. Every sip from here on out is “because it’s there” not “serious anticipation”. With a sigh, he sets it down — perhaps a bit too hard.

The bang is louder than expected. He hears a matching start from Joanne at the front door. She’s talking to someone - two people. They want to talk to him too. Something is wrong. What trouble now? He doesn’t want to go. He can’t go. He can’t see Joanne. His eyes hurt. He closes them to clear his mind.

He feels something wet on his fingers. Still drowsy, he manages a “Ha”, as he spies Bogart, his yellow lab. The good-old-boy is licking his fingers, staring up at him grey muzzle leading, hoping for treats. He thinks “I love this dog.” A warm feeling spreads through him at the thought. He knew the dog loved him as well. The dog loved Joanne too, of course. Dogs are love in four-paw form. At 8-weeks he’d brought Bogart home. He had slept with him, on the other side of the house, every night for weeks until until the little fella could sleep through the night. Joanne knew. She knew, as did he, that every dog you own becomes a part of you. Love enough dogs in your life, and you end up part dog. That was a good thing.

As he tries to complete the thought, he thinks he hears Joanne entering the room and looks up expecting to see her carrying laundry or brandishing a sheaf of bills on one mission or another. But he sees it’s not Joanne. He’s a little afraid and a little sad. She comes over and speaks to him. “Mr. Matter, you’ve spilled some of your juice. Let me help.”