running over

It's when the freshly ground coffee, deep brown and fragrant, nearly overflows the canister I pour it into that I realize that I am as rich as Francie Nolan.

My hands also overflow with the tasks I want them to do... task that are not chores but privileges to carry out: letters to reply to, packages to send, reading for a class. I can't figure out which I want to do first.

I keep my eyes open, my ears tuned--every sense awake and alive--ready to take in each beautiful moment I can, the small and ordinary along with the grand and majestic: from the final moments of what my memory knows as the Steadfast Tin Soldier piece on my car stereo (Shostakovich's Piano Concerto No. 2, Opus 102, Allegro), to the curl--just perfect for twisting round fingers--that somehow survived a busy day full of movement, to the fresh, blank notebooks that lay on my nightstand waiting to be filled with stories and thoughts.

My cup runs over.

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