Coffee, a sleeping child, and the small altar of an ordinary Tuesday.
The mug is warm before I am. I hold it with both hands the way I once held my newborn — with a kind of reverence that no one teaches you, that arrives only when you are tired enough to receive it.
Outside, the street is still soft. The house creaks in that gentle way old houses do when they know you are listening.
This is my prayer, then. Not the kneeling kind. The noticing kind.
— Jessica
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