An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

The struggle between good and evil. The villain stands and does their required monologue. The antagonist reveals their bitter, tragic backstory while the heroine pines for the hero every night and lives in the fancy castle. The sidekick cracks jokes and gives sound advice. The malevolent wizard twirls his mustache and hatches his plots. The writer learns the rules studies the great authors diagrams the overarching plots then learns to break them and invent them anew.

 "I need this done yesterday I need this appointment made I need I need I need..." It's always what needs to be done and in true passive voice you're not the one to do it. It's me. I'm forward facing I deal with people set up meetings I'm the mover and shaker But in the end I'm the invisible shadow who pulls the strings and get no credit.

There is comfort in routine. To know what will come before, during, after. No stress in planning everything happens in the same time, place and manner. If life always went that way it would be easy to become complacent. But life never runs quite so smoothly. Emergencies happen the unexpected too. How do you react? Paralyzed with indecision? Face the challenge head on? Your routine is broken.

I watch her on stage in the company of fellow musicians as they tune their instruments and prepare to serenade the audience with lovely music. That could have been me forty or so years ago if I'd had the courage to tell my mother what I wanted to do and how I longed to do it. She was too tired the crowds too exhausting the sacrifices too great Unfulfilled dreams with her own violin she didn't want to open that book. Other priorities school was more important Get straight A's, help the family do what I want you to do then think about what you want to do you with your life. Forty years later my own daughter proudly plays because she loves it and she wants to and I smile and be happy for her and not just for me.

Yellow light from the windows is quite deceptive giving the illusion of warmth. Outside the trees sway and the bushes bend under the weight of a winter wind. Leaves swirl in circles chasing each other in endless torment whipped up in a frenzy some manage to break away to tumble into the street and scattered by passing cars. It is ice, not snow not a spellbound wonderland the gray sheen of treachery clings to every surface glittering like jeweled mirrors foretelling disaster. Brown grass crunch underfoot dirt frozen solid, a dark crust harder than the stalest loaf of bread. Suspended in time the ants sleep within and dream of a long awaited spring.

It's freezing today my body is like an old car that needs an eternity to warm up constantly backspacing fingers mistyping letters mistakes forever I wish I can rest but there's too much to do today. Appointments to keep deadlines to meet people to see meetings to go to I can see the wind stirring the bushes outside my window and the thought of going past the walls of my house fills me with dread. I need a mechanic to fix this rust bucket of a corpse that I animate.