This morning, unlike most mornings, I sit at the bar for breakfast, a poetry book in one hand, a philosophy book in the other. Hugh jots notes for his Sunday School lesson across from me in between frying eggs and making toast. In the pocket of his white pressed shirt is a tithing envelope and an orange capped fountain pen, his brown wool trousers secured with the same red suspenders he’s worn for years.
I read snippets of poetry to him, and he shares his car analogy from his yellow notepad. On a plate he slides three fried eggs and two slices of buttered toast under my books and hands me a fork.
I do not intend to eat three eggs and two pieces of buttered toast, but his offering pleases me anyway. It means he doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve gained a few pounds lately and it means he loves me madly no matter what.
Soon, our three girls join us on barstools, receiving the same treatment, including berry jam and milk. Xani reads to us her very own revision of George Washington’s 110 Rules of Civility to our amusement.
“In public nor in private when in urgent need of floss, refrain from flossing with a long strand of hair.”
We all laugh, especially me and why not? I’m happy today. Happy to luxuriate over berry toast and poetry, a handsome waiter and the love of my life, and three bright, sunny girls sitting so close I can kiss them.