We have a routine.
I think it must come with age.
Hubby makes his own breakfast. (Don’t do the bad-wife thing on me. He makes his own because he doesn’t like to talk in the morning so would rather be left alone.)
Now, though he makes his own—there’s a routine even to that endeavor.
With brown sugar (he keeps his very own supply in his office) which he measures out then tap, tap. taps the side of the measuring cup to distribute it evenly over the top of said oatmeal.
The up-side to this?
He does his own dishes, and the popcorn bowl from the night before. Yeah—he’s a keeper.
I join him—each in our own matching rocker in front of our lake-facing windows—for coffee.
He checks his phone for weather.
I check my phone for messages.
I ask him what the weather is going to do.
He asks me if I’ve gotten anything important.
Before going out to check whatever it is he checks outside, he stands and looks out the windows.
His brow furrows. His lips move.
“What?” I ask.
He laughs. He knows he’s been talking to himself.
“It’s a secret. I wasn’t talking to you.” He replies.
He goes out.
I finish my coffee, pour a second cup and ponder our conversation.
After 56 years, we don’t need words.
It’s as routine as the sunrise.
Mundane, you might say.
Not at all.