I have a premonition of retrospect – the way I’ll look back on these mornings, shattered and chattering, salt crusting on skin as we share in our strange communion.
This fleeting family, bittersweet, wet clothes sticking to vinyl seats. Lapsing into silence, teacups clenched in trembling hands, home comfort post-sublime.
Hours from now I’ll wonder why we do it to ourselves. How this stream of half-gleaned meaning is worth the impending crash.
And yet in years to come the scene will take a softer focus – an anachronistic nostalgia, the beginning and end of eras, the coffee-scented calm between storms.