Waking up late, and my mother and uncle have left. Being sort of ambivalent about cinnamon rolls but making them anyway. Sipping warm coffee and biting into the moist bun as acoustic songs fill the space behind my head that I never see, but is nonetheless there.
My sister enters the room. Noise increases. Still, something sweet hums in the background and the sun has joined us for communion. The worship of a new day. The thanks for something routine.
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