Cappuccino

The swirl of the cappuccino milk might be beautiful, she thought to herself, the idea vaguely penetrating through the fog of morning. Maybe in a different lifetime, she could stop to appreciate it. As it was, there was no mental room for anything outside of her morning routine: robotic by necessity, dulled and monotone.

She drifted through the kitchen, feeling slow but moving fast, fueled by the dull adrenaline of an unknown amount of limited time. Absently, she wondered if she had ever considered the milk in her cappuccino, other than shaking it for foam. Maybe she should get a real machine and stop making them by hand. Who did that anymore? Machines were hardly as expensive as they used to be. Why didn’t she have one? Her thoughts were separated from her brain as if by a cloud.

The dull beeping sound broke into her consciousness, reminding her to pick up the pace to avoid missing her breakfast. A familiar noise, but not the one she was dreading. Ignoring it, she reached for a yogurt. Maple. Her favorite – as if she even enjoyed yogurt. Reminding herself of the convenience, she scooped granola right into the little glass jar. Added a few almonds. Delicious? No. Filling? Absolutely.

With nothing but cappuccino and yogurt for company, she took a minute to appreciate the solitude. It was an uncommon sensation for her over the past few months. She could not recall a time in her life where she longed to be alone, untouched and unbothered, but she felt that way here, in her little kitchen, in her little house. She disliked the feeling. What wouldn’t she give to feel like herself again? What wouldn’t she do to recognize her own mind, and her own feelings? With time, she knew this would get better. She was impatient.

Untethered by awareness, her mind wandered to faraway days and distant memories. A different home, a different lifetime. A job that called her out of the house and into the world. A social life that slept less than she does now. It almost seems silly that she thought she was busy back then. She was so naïve. Looking back, it felt as though it had all happened to someone else. A different woman’s life in a busy city. A different woman’s dedication to a thankless profession.

Brooding at the counter, her mind slipped into a familiar train of thought before she could pull it back. She chose this life. She wanted it then and she still does now. She is one of the lucky ones. How many women would kill for what she takes for granted every day? How many times did she wish for exactly this? It is only right that she appreciates it. A nagging feeling of creeping guilt. She loves this life. Reminding herself that she has no right to feel any other way, she pushed her thoughts into the little space inside where she stores them.

Sipping her cappuccino, she is brought back to years ago. Sitting on stone steps, laughing at nothing. Everything was funny, then. Feeling the caffeinated bite of espresso, watching the smoke swirl in the air. Could she still laugh that easily? Maybe not. How fast the years have gone by.

As her mind slowly sharpens, she begins to do the math. Two hours last night, then one. Three total. Not enough sleep for either of them. She would have to ensure that he makes it up today, or tonight would be another difficult one. Will it ever get easier? Maybe she will get better at this.

Did her mom struggle like this when she was young? If she had, they had never discussed it. Her mom never seemed to acknowledge the difficulties. Maybe she doesn’t remember them anymore. Maybe all women forget them, compartmentalize them. Maybe it is a defense mechanism. Would she do the same when the time comes? She always had so many questions, without a steady train of thought to connect or answer them.

Another sip. Another beep. She really needed to plug in the little screen. Glancing over, she can almost feel him in her arms. His little self, hardly even a person, pulled close to her. Last week, he began to hold her in return. His small hands, warm and pudgy. She smiled at the memory and felt a little lighter.

Her mind began to circle around the housework to be done, teasing out which tasks could be completed together, strategizing how to fit them all into the day. Was it possible that it was only Tuesday? Maybe she should have another cappuccino. Or maybe, honestly, she shouldn’t be having any at all. She had so many things to feel guilty about these days.

Would she be able to sleep tonight? The thought of another sleepless night loomed over her like a black veil of nothingness. She wanted to be strong enough. She knew that she would be. What choice could she have, really? A bright place in the expectation: a peaceful moment of intense quiet, breathing him in, rocking together.

A book sat on the counter. She reads this one every morning. An image jumped into her mind: the sound of a small giggle as the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth. The feel of his little tummy as she jostled him with the story. She laughed too, and something relaxed within her.  She sipped her cappuccino.

Feeling the cup in her hand, she thought of her grandmother, who had gifted her this dishware. How happy she would have been to see her now. She thought of packing away these cups in the old kitchen, never considering that she would be drinking from them here, in a different lifetime.

Approaching the bottom of the cappuccino, she realized there was nearly nothing left but the milky foam. She looked down at it, thinking of four generations, with her in the middle. It was beautiful, she decided. She let out a deep breath, as the baby started to cry.