Contentment

A wisp of fragrant steam comes up from the cup of coffee in my hands.  I lower my face and inhale deeply.  The sun is raising its sleepy head over the hills.  No one else is up yet, and everything is wrapped in blissful silence.  Chaos will come later.  I have grown quite good at riding the waves of activity, knowing which tide of desire, which tug of need to heed, and which to carefully steer away from.  But here, snuggled into the easy chair my husband says is too soft, and yet spends every evening in, here I don't have to weigh each movement. 
         
This is my carefully hoarded solitude. 

The mother, the wife, the housekeeper, cook, driver, and personal assistant they are all still asleep.  All the roles I wear; hats and superhero capes, apron and business suit, they are all tucked away waiting to wake up and worry, organize, and triage.  Sipping coffee, bare feet tucked in between the chair cushions, these are only the most simple parts of me.  I drink my coffee and observe the sun acquiescing the laws of physics.

I hear him come in behind me.  His hair is a mess and his eyes won't open all the way.  I tilt my head to accept my morning kiss.  I have always enjoyed his absent minded affection the most.  Knowing that he doesn't think about it, that it is the most natural thing to bend down and kiss me, is the sweetest part.
         
“There's coffee in the kitchen.”  His only reply is a sleepy grunt.  I grin into my own cup as he does the morning zombie shuffle into the next room.