Don’t be distracted

At the coffee shop this morning I ordered a large because I didn’t want to be distracted by Monday, the predictable slow slide away from Sunday, stumbling back into alone-time while Heather pedals west to the downtown towers. Today begins November. The temperature dipped to below zero levels. I wished to hibernate and hoped a filled mug would deter that desire and nudge me back into my awake life and writing.

I also ordered a large because the price of coffee has become ridiculous. “I’d like just a small brewed,” I said. “We don’t have small, but I can give you a medium,” said the server. It cost $2.00 and I was aghast, especially when I looked a the tiny mug she had filled. “I don’t know how you guys get away with it,” I said, not particularly unkindly. That’s when the young woman told me that for a quarter more I could get a large coffee. This seemed more palatable so I took the deal. But it still hurt, oh yes, $2.25 for a cup of coffee and I earn almost no money.

Fear of distractions. Wishing to hibernate. I shut up, sunk deep into my seat and swallowed.

Before leaving home this morning, some time between learning the temperature and rooting among musty winter hats, I pinned a button onto my ankle-length blue wool coat with hopes that I’d get some work done today. Then I opened the door and yes, it was cold, but brilliant sun and smirking pumpkins greeted me. Across the street from our house the Japanese maple is still fully leaved and shares branches with a few dozen dangling white ghosts. The yellow mum on our front porch still blooms and I can’t decide whether to let it wither in the air or bring it inside (note: must google mums today).

Although I work at home, stepping outside is always a lovely interlude; I love watching the city wake up. But this morning I might have frightened the young brewista, not because I challenged the cost of the cuppa but even before we exchanged those words. She asked what my button said. I leaned closer and let her read it. “Don’t be distracted. Death is coming.” “Oh. I guess it’s a good reminder,” she whispered.

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About Nor

I'm a creative non-fiction writer, with a special interest in memoirs and obituaries--life stories, local histories with flesh & blood anecdotal details. I'm also beginning to create podcasts of people's stories and expanding their audiences. I'm a diarist, an editor, and a political activist. I live in Toronto, Ontario, Canada and spend days tapping keys or staining my fingers in ink.
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