Waking up with mom

It's morning my father is either still sleeping or working. My mother never slept much so seeing her on the couch is no surprise. My father's restless feet were so bad that he could have been paid overtime for working in his sleep. My mother had to resort to the couch. The couch is covered in quilts and throw pillows, provides very little comfort at all.  No one sleeps well on burlap. She is awake and I can tell she is praying. She smiles and nods lovingly. 

Beside her is a flowery ceramic coffee cup. The cup has a word on it. That word is Meme' Grandmother. The coffee brand is called eight o'clock. I know this because I have to go to the A&P, grind it and bag it whenever she runs out. And because our house is the coffee shop for all wayward travelers, running out happens quite often. Surprisingly, the coffee tastes okay.  

 A steamy cup

One day, she was gifted a Mr. Coffee machine. It was probably a gift from my father and after forgiving him for such a practical and unromantic gift, she decided to use it. This new machine was a game changer. The sound of water dripping through fine ground beans and paper.  Hearing the last burst of steam as it escapes was almost enough to wake up even the most sluggish souls. Just a heads up, drinking eight o'clock coffee at five in the morning doesn't improve the flavor much. Still, anytime is a good time for coffee.

 Pre-Ritual 

To the side of the couch is a maple table. It is just big enough to house magazines at the bottom and a few choice items on top.  Four items to be precise.  A chipped ashtray, a pack of Matinee kings, a cup of coffee and a rosary. A Pope John Paul autographed copy. Okay, maybe not but the round box it came in had his face etched on the lid. 

The ritual begins

There is a lit cigarette laying on a clear glass ashtray. The smoke is rising, competing with the coffee vapors funneling up through a yellow stained lampshade. My mother has a rosary in her hand. I try not to distract her. She has a system and plans drags and sips after each decade. I am in the dinning room eating breakfast. I know she is done when I hear the TV turn on. 

 Daily mass

When she finishes her rosary, she turns on the daily mass. Live from Toronto or wherever. I sit with her and watch as she verbalizes the responses. This mass is not bad and it's over in thirty minutes. No standing, no kneeling, no commercials.  At this church we could drink coffee and instead of smelly oil soaped pews we get to sit on a quilt covered burlap couch.  The quilt makes it bearable and bit more comfortable. I start to think how cool it would be to have a church filled with sofa's so that the Chesterfield's and I (pun intended) could really enjoy mass. At least now when I fall sleep, I could do so in comfort. The best part. No priest to bust me.

 Joy

I will never forget the comfort I felt nesting next to my mother with my head on her shoulders watching mass. How safe I felt being cuddled in angel wings, the arms of my mother. That is, when the dog let me get close enough.