Morning Sun

There is a stream of light that shines into our house in the morning. 

At eight sharp it is there, waiting for me to open our front door so it can make our living room brighten with its natural glow.

This morning I let it in.

I sat with my cup of coffee, drinking the bitter taste slowly, letting it bring me into a new day.

I drank it black. Sipping out of my favorite mug.

It’s a white one with small flowers that used to be my grandmother’s. 

It is really only fitting that I drink my morning coffee in one of her aged cups now. 

After all, she was the one who taught me to drink the repulsive stuff. 

But back then, I would hide the bitter taste with as much cream and sugar as I could possibly fit into the mug before sitting down with her at her rickety kitchen table. 

The sun shone into her house in the morning too.

I miss her.

I’m not one to think that people stick around after they die.

Plus, I know for a fact that my grandmother would much rather be playing cribbage and drinking sherry with my grandfather than looking after boring old me.

But mornings like this make it seem like she’s here somehow.

With this morning light, I find myself believing that she may have come to check up on her youngest granddaughter.

I see, smell, and hear her everywhere.

She is the sun that caresses my shoulders as I sit cross-legged on the warn wooden floor.

She is in every bloom that I arranged for her last night that now shine in the warm glow next to me.

She is in the crack in the white mug that holds my black coffee.

And while the rich taste and the strong smell may hold memories of her, and our time together, it’s not quite enough to drown out the fact that I miss her.

I just miss her.