A magic white pill and the morning slips by. I sleep until he does, on the couch, within earshot. When his feet hit the kitchen, I wake. “It’s 10:00!” he exclaims, staring at the microwave timepiece. It usually says 7. He is standing by the sink unsure what to do with himself. Momma is away on a month-long trial stay at an assisted living facility. “Why don’t you make coffee?” I offer. Though, some days it eludes him. The familiar sounds prove that this is not the case today. Clinking and whirring and clacking and grinding. I wander over when he pauses stymied. “You’ve done the prepwork” I say, as he pours the black dust then I reorder the pot to perc and plug it in. Another sound now as three minutes brew by. We are sitting together at the table. He is hungry – the typical morning anxiety-nausea eased by Alprazolam – and devours the remains of yesterday’s muffin. Three-quarters and some crumbs, licking his fingers to catch every piece.