All day Saturday, something was not exactly right. As if I was missing a piece, but not an essential one. Whatever I’d lost, it was located on my periphery; it affected comfort more squarely than function. I was a vehicle that had thrown a belt or lost a plug. I was functioning, but not at full speed, not on all cylinders.
In the initial analysis, I blamed it on my cold. Headaches, sinus issues, the works—one of my students Friday had probably tagged me. But this did not explain everything, not by half. In hindsight, the real diagnosis should have been more obvious.
Friday night, Lindsay and I’d had a bunch of friends over. One of them had approached our coffeepot, mug in hand, and picked it up—only to find it depleted. The pot was replaced with resigned wistfulness. Naturally, I was deeply moved by the domestic tragedy. On Saturday, the memory returned to me several times.
Question is, How could I have been so blind to its deeper meaning?
This morning, as I downed several cups of coffee, I felt the empty places between my nerve endings filling in. Synapses began firing with their usual efficiency. The coffee slid down my throat like molten steel and propped up my limp frame. All round, I felt more like my usual self. Healthier. A better person. Holistically more prepared for life.
Foregoing one’s Saturday coffee is a dangerous plan.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Filed in: Stories