A cold glass. The condensation on the outside like a soft, winter sweat. Your hand around it, holding. a ritual. A small, silent moment in the morning before the world starts talking. Before the birds are even loud. Just the hum of the fridge. The clink of the ice.
It was like my grandmother. The fields hot and brown under a high sun. She would come in, dust on her face, and go straight to the kitchen. She poured a glass. No words. Just a moment at the table with the glass. I watched. The way she held it. The way the world seemed to stop for just a little while. For her.
Now it is my quiet. My water, clear and cold. Down the throat. A small clean-up inside. Like a good sweep of a floor. Making a new start. The mind, it gets full. All the voices. All the shoulds and should nots. But in that small, silent space, just the cold glass, just the water. Nothing else. A good, quiet way to begin. A small, simple thing. But it is everything.
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