copyright Cindy Henson Wiggins 2018 Gravel-laced whir of a coffee grinder and footsteps overhead. She is awake. I imagine her messy-haired and half asleep, stretching good morning in her robe. The robe is lavander with small plum blossoms dotted over it’s silken surface. This I know because I’ve seen it when she’s trotted down to retrieve her mail as her coffee brews. I appreciate that she grinds her own beans. I do the same. Any self-respecting coffee lover does. At least, I assume she loves coffee because I know she has it special delivered and yes, she grinds her own beans every morning. So, she must love good coffee. Her light footsteps overhead are comforting as I eat my breakfast. I wonder what she eats, if she eats breakfast. Perhaps she settles in with fresh fruit and yogurt. Maybe it’s eggs and toast, just like me. I can hear the scraping of her chair and the soft creak of aged wood, perhaps rattan. I can’t be sure, but we’ve spent our mornings together so often i...