morning grind

Every one of my mornings is tainted by the steady mechanical heartbeat of our coffee machine bequeathing my father with the gift of energy and the will to move. It has become such a constant in my life that I have noticed, in the times he has retreated down to the beach to find a place of solace in which to continue writing, that its absence is almost unnerving. the verdict is still out as to whether unnerving is a more pleasant experience than irritating, but either which way; this amalgamation of gear-ish sounds and hissing steam coupled with the aroma of fresh coffee is a pilar of normality in my life.