My Rock Laura Hardin There we sat at the kitchen table, white linen cascading down as the seams caught the end before it hit the ground. Weary and tired eyes, burdened with the weight of sight, just a mere “two sips” before sunrise, you’d say. Soft murmurs were shared until the time came to spend six hours away. There we sat at the kitchen table, but not until the age of sixteen did I go from watching the white ribbons dance their way through the fragrant brown background to consuming my own. With your mug filled, dark as the rocks we collected that day at the beach, mine gave my lips a taste but matched the color of sand. We’d feed on the warmth and share our goodbyes, before navigating on to our days. There we sat at the kitchen table, marking the last time that the bitter aroma would be a part of our sunrise rhythm. A feeling presented when my heart began to race and awoke the wraiths of my mind. But like the coffee that helped the weight of our eyes, your soft murmurs gave comfort and soothed my dreary soul. Now I sit at my own kitchen table, reminiscing the times of sips before sunrise. Your warmth towards the morning left a mark just as dark as the brown ring on the white linen. The miles between us don’t interrupt our rhythm, my cup is filled, black as the rocks we collected that day at the beach.
d Onion River Review d 69
