'Cos Every Inch of Hope

And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead - Mistakes & Regrets

Bach Cello Suite Prelude hums from the tinny sounding speaker of his phone, which is lying close to his ear.

He begins to open his eyes, allowing the shift of dark sleep to the early morning light filtering through the blinds. He stretches, arching his back until his body takes control and curls him into a cat-like position.

Getting out of bed, he shuffles towards the bathroom, being mindful of waking his mother in the next room. Eyes partly closed, he pisses as quietly as he can.

Then he sets out his morning routine. He fills a pan with water, places a lid onto it and sets it on the glasstop stove burner, set to high. Next, he reaches left of the stove for the French press and the jar of ground coffee, and takes them both to the kitchen island. He opens a drawer and pulls out a measuring spoon, then scoops out six tablespoons, rotating the deep jar to reach the contents, and transfers it to the press. Leaving that on the counter, he moves back toward the living room, stopping to open the wooden blinds of the patio doors. He stares outside for a few moments. The sun is playing a game with the clouds and the light shifts as it hides then reappears with brash intensity.

He breaks from the moment and moves towards the couch. Then he grabs the pillow, and tucks it next to the couch. He then folds the blanket, then the sheet and piles them on top of the pillow. Quietly, to make sure not to disrupt his mother in the next room.

By this point, the water has reached it’s boil, and he moves back to the kitchen for the next stage. He places the press in the sink, then grabs the pan from the stovetop and carries it over, being careful not to spill boiling water out of the sides onto his naked feet. He pours just enough water into the press to cover the grounds and allow them to bloom. He pauses, looks out the patio doors, then returns to filling the press. Allowing the coffee to rest, he grabs the cup that he has adopted as his, with the handle that fits his hand best. It is red with a white base, and the words Stewart are printed in white on each side, although one has been worn off, leaving the ghost of an S and a wa. He places both the press and the cup on the countertop of the kitchen island next to each other, turns around, opens the sleek silver refrigerator door and grabs the large pink and white carton of half & half. He momentarily thinks of the green and brown label, with moitié moitié written on it, of the brand he’d buy back in Canada. It’s a brief flashback, that he follows up by pouring a small amount of the cream into his empty coffee cup.

Then he walks roughly 5 feet to the small antique wooden table that also functions as his desk. Being careful not to lean too much on it and wake his mother in the next room by activating its antique creakiness, he opens his battered laptop and turns it on. It replies with its good morning tone, muffled and distorted by its small blown speaker. As it powers up, he checks the microwave clock, noting that the coffee still has two more minutes until he can plunge it and pour a cup.

This is the same routine every morning for the last 14 months.

When 4 and a half minutes have passed, he plunges the coffee, pours himself his cup, and takes it to the table to sit down and read the news, check his email, see the job alerts, stare into the digital void, and ponder how he got to be waking every morning for 14 months being careful not to wake his mother in the next room and asking his inner voice that may or may not be what some people refer to as GOD: when will this all go away…