The days my own, their beginnings defined by a cut lemon: glistening, bright, astringent, sharp-sweet smell, held in a triangle of pitted yellow and white pith. One triangle submerged into hot water, an old lady’s drink. I am not embarrassed, have no regrets. I relish the warmth and brightness. The comfort of habit. An anchor in the vast sea of an open day. Coffee will come later with its oppositeness of color and smell and its sameness of something to be counted on. In between these two drinks, before and after their footing, are the words: read, written, and sometimes spoken aloud just to hear the shape of their sounds.