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Coffee

It seems that every day is a spill-coffee-on-yourself kind of day. At least, that’s how it’s been since I moved.

I’m no good at change. I want so much for IT to happen whatever IT is and then when IT does, well. What then?

I’m living with my mom again and I realize, on some nights like tonight, that I’m so miserable waiting for her to just get home. I don’t know how miserable I am until I see her–and then it hits me. There’s the one. There’s the one I can talk to.

I’ve been spilling my coffee on myself a lot lately. Getting into the car, getting out of the car. I’m anxious, I’m afraid, I’m upset. I should call on the name of Jesus–you don’t have to tell me. So I do. Then I spill coffee on myself again.

On the subject of coffee I’ve also come to realize this. That you can be irrevocably in love with a man, and yet, he has no idea how you take your coffee. Man, how does that work, Lord?

Sometimes I’ll be in the kitchen. Ok, let me start over. I’m always in the kitchen. If you’re not in there, man, I’m in there. I’ll get to thinking. There isn’t anyone alive who can cook eggs or make turkey and rice like my dad can. And he’s not here in Folsom with me.

I’m always realizing realizations. I don’t know yet if that’s a sign of maturity or a sign that I’m not learning anything, if I have to keep realizing.

There’s just a lot that goes into loving somebody and disliking your Bible study and missing your dad and kinda sorta hating yourself and starting over again and again and again with so many damn clean slates that you start to wonder if they’re even clean any more.

Peace. Peace I leave with you.

He says.

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