My best friend gave me this mug I’ve come to love, not just because he gave it to me, but for its larger size and the saying on its side which refers to writing being a kind of superpower, to which I agree completely.

It sits on its little bamboo coaster on the corner of the writing desk totally in service to me, its worshipper and devourer, and it’s easy to imagine it as a paraprofessional waiting eagerly in a remote part of the classroom for their student to calm and have a seat.

I find so much comfort in this cup of coffee. Does this mean the girl’s face on the TV last night I found refuge in is something I drink? Or is it what drinking represents to me that I’ve come to swallow, which, being an adult child of an alcoholic, has come to mean a kind of safe escape from emotional overwhelm and having to regulate oneself?

Ultimately, who knows. But I think these words I type at 6:07 AM swing back and forth like golden doors I can take into a bright, sunny, heaven-like view of the sunrise coming up over the elm out front, or they can sink through my dream of peace and drip like the hellish, black mold even now running down my shower, seeking a place to fester in the grout.

One thing, it’s clear I drink my coffee to walk into the heart chamber of memory half-asleep. But it’s also clear I drink it to endure and feel connected to the pain of living I believe everybody’s addicted to. It’s how I now it’ll be my little loves that will end me.