How we hold it all together

+ writing prompt

Deschutes River in Sunriver, Oregon

It is Friday and the last full day of vacation. I am tucked downstairs in the 2-story dwelling, sitting a few feet off the eastern edge of the slender sleeve of the Deschutes River in Sunriver, Oregon.

The weather is charitable, offering a textbook touch to write with a picture-perfect blend of crisp wetness on this fine Autumn morning. I am warm in the upholstered cushioned chair seated next to the wall made of glass.

My view to the west consists of a portrait of the calm crystal current shaded by a beautiful blend of golden-dusted grasses, wild shrubs, crowns of rising evergreen trees, and a single skinny skeleton birch against a sunless sky.

I wonder how we traveled north to rediscover the origins of our childhood and hold it all together under one roof for a week.

Somehow, the coffee gets made each morning, set to a timer, ready to steep from the busy fingers of my mom the night before. One of the last things she does before she drifts off into a slow slumber, sealing the day and preparing the sunrise senses as the aroma awakens the quiet houseguests the following dawn.

Above me, in the second story space, Mom is huddled in bed with a book and her dependable hot coffee poured and served by her sweetheart, Joe.

In the central living room, Jim is at his momentary makeshift workstation at the far end of the solid walnut dining table with his two laptops, dividing his time between screens, swigs of strong coffee, generating produce orders, calling clients, and soundlessly drumming the keyboard.

Joe sits at the other end with his iPad, enjoying a morning of devoted memoirs of the dearly deceased as he reads the obituaries of the San Francisco Chronicle. His humbled white ceramic mug occupies customary black coffee with a splash of sugary sweetness and a slender silver spoon.

In her cozy corner against the misty morning sky is Marci snuggled in the solid, seasoned red leather armchair and ottoman, blanket coating her lap and legs, sharing sips of black coffee as she enjoys her third book of the week: The Taken Ones, by Jess Lourey, a pulse-pounding story of secrets and crimes.

An empty armchair to her right and the whisper of the gas hearth await my return to saddle up to the softness of the morning light.

Reigner sits patiently on the rug near the sliding glass door that spreads to the second-story balcony, standing off the border of a window paned wall. He anticipates the rain to stop and for me to toss his buoyant blood-orange canvas flyer wheel rimmed in cobalt blue for a loyal game of leap and fetch.

Renato is close by in the next room, securely in bed, waking to updates on his phone. No coffee, not yet. That will come after a breakfast of home-grown granola swirled with the satisfying Silk chocolate almond milk. It is I who, like my mother, is tasked with the tradition of making our LavAzza Italian grounds in the silver Bialetti stovetop espresso maker after I enjoy a hearty bowl of steamy Bob's Red Mill rolled gluten-free oats drizzled in ghee made by local Oregon-raised cows.

John is in Redding, CA, with a to-go coffee in his car cup holder, alert as he makes his way home after enjoying a few days with family and a round of golf with Joe.

Maybe the rain will lighten up in time for Marci and me to go on our morning walk along the river with Reigner as we engage in curious conversation while eavesdropping on the coasting geese and bright Blue jays with their distinct whistle.

I wonder how we did it, how we instantly knew how to fall into place, setting routines in a new but familiar way, building memories, and brewing coffee. The clever way my mother works her way into the morning, though silently out of sight, and how her fragrant roast welcomes the day, turning the subtle into a ritual of remembering.

Meanwhile, it's raining outside. And yet the story will get written, the book will get read, the work will get done, the dead will be honored, the dog will catch the wheel mid-air and drop it with slobber at my toes, and a friendly competitive game of cards will get played after dinner.

Meanwhile, the family of white-tailed deer will comb the surroundings for their next meal, the flock of fowl will fly, and another day will unfold into timeless magic.

Within a day, we will pack up and head south towards home. A piece of our hearts will remain, taking root in the northern high desert of the mountain air of Sunriver, Bend, and Sisters, Oregon.

Meanwhile, we will continue our daily routines again without notice. We will continue celebrating coffee like the Peets roast my mom crafted carefully, and the little rituals of affection she instilled will grow more robust and bolder each day.

Coffee, kindness, and love, both shared and simple, are symbols that can often go unnoticed yet extend a meaningful impact and connect us to remembrance and ceremony that remain in the intimacy of our homes and hearts.

And when my mom goes about her every day and prepares the coffee pot Saturday evening for her and Joe Sunday morning, she will stop, beam a bittersweet smile, and remember how her efforts and care brought us all together.

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Writing Prompt

How we hold it all together

Somehow, the coffee gets made each morning