(This was written, from the title prompt, during my writing workshop.)
Sunday morning and the coffee is brewing. The smell spreads throughout the kitchen, teasing my senses. That first sip is one of my favorite taste sensations. That first sip brings back memories of decades of first sips. Learning to drink coffee in middle school, when I thought the liquid would imbue me with maturity. Later, sitting in the early morning hours, silently reading the paper with my dad as we both sipped on the first cup of Joe. Still later, my sleepy eyes trying to stay open with the use of caffeine as I rocked that baby, too early risen even for my morning lark lifestyle.
Sunday morning and the coffee is brewing. The week has been hectic; life often feels like a crazy spinning top or maybe a roulette wheel. When will the spinning stop? Where will the ball drop? But now, the house is quiet and the coffee is brewing.
My grandmother had a rule, taken from her Biblical upbringing, that no work could be done on Sundays. As a teenager living in her house, I hated that rule. I had a lot I wanted to do on Sundays, but my mom said it was disrespectful to go against Grandma’s rule. So, I hid my activity, often staying in my room most of the day, making use of the time to do work privately so that I wouldn’t offend Grandma. Now, I often wish I had that same Biblical upbringing so I would simply know that Sunday would always be a day of rest. A day to slow the spinning top and watch it come to a halt. Always, every Sunday.
Sunday morning and the coffee is brewing. I have no Biblical-inspired rule, but today I have nowhere to go. Sunday morning and the coffee is brewing and I feel my soul relax as I anticipate that first sip and I know that I have nowhere to go today.