A Habit I Do Not Need

In the hospital lobby, there is a Starbucks stand. I've never understood paying a minimum of $1.50 for just the smallest cup of coffee, but neither do I like the vending machine which drops a cup and fills it with a liquid that is hot and brown, but somehow not really coffee. At the Starbucks counter, people stand in line five deep each morning for their lattes and grandes. Strange gurglings and grunts come from behind the counter as the man in front of me orders some concoction. The sounds are not too unlike the ones I've listened to all night at my dad's beside. The too jovial coffee barrister expects a tip, loudly thanking each tipping customer who drops change in her obvious jar.

I take my black, nothing in it, no whipped cream, no steam, no cinnamon or chocolate shavings. Just coffee please. She hands me a cup and I have to pour my own from pumping thermos's. the barrister keeps the nickel change with a smile. I walk the long corriders back and sit with dad, sipping the coffee. At that point, I'd had no sleep for 24 hours. After my coffee, I felt I could fly a jet plane without fuel. I had learned the secret.

Notes:
The ventilator has been turned back to encourage dad to breathe more on his own. I sit and watch him breathe.

The wind chill makes it feel like less than 0 degrees F. The hospital is so insulated from the world, I don't feel it. I worry about my chickens going outside back home.