A Small Fire

A fast, timed write — unedited

Photo by Kevin Butz on Unsplash

by Cynthia Cummins

in the morning I start up my laptop, a small fire to bend over and get warm and start the day. for my mother it was the coffeemaker. just the press of a button before the gurgling and the aroma of dusty sun and ? she’d always scoop the grounds into the machine the night before. stand there to confirm it was going before turning to other tasks while it brewed.

my grandmothers probably made coffee too, in a percolator. when they were girls did they have the job of starting a woodstove, or bringing alive the coals form the night before? their slender pale hands gripping a cold poker. their faces shining in the orange light. beginning their day, living their small large lives. long before marriage or children or the knowledge that it was all nothing special.