I HEAR THE CEREMONY that has become familiar to me each Waipahu morning. 

It is the whrrrrrrrrrrr of the coffee grinder that makes it certain that the Colombia medium roast (ah, the Ethiopian my UP alum presidente Carolyn Weygan gave me is long gone, just a couple of days after receiving those beans, with only her Post-It note I kept on my cork board as a reminder of the eternal remains of her kindness of heart) that promises delight get to pulverization, and then moved to the black brewer (no, not the fancy type with its fancy price) bought at Walmart, where else.

I take my cup, put in some of those ready-to-pour mix that promises hazelnut delight, or Irish creamy winy goodness.

I turn on the computer while remembering that last night was a good night, with the last episode of the 80-episode Prison Break coming to light, with Michael Scofield my savior not raging against the dying light.

Of course, he dies, but there is subtlety in dying like fading away so unnoticed, but leaving behind the grace of your goodness the way my manong Joe Padre died. Like Scofield the Prison Break expert, Manong Joe and I and many others plotted so many things for our salvation, the plot unknown to most except to our own particular goddesses and gods. Ah, enough of this story.

The other story is that while I am about to drink my first cup--I need five cups a day, please!--the missus reminds: When are those misshapen boxes with all those multicolored notes and scratch papers and books and notebooks and notepads and what-have-you go away from this living room, from this side of the dining table?

That was something!

Yes, a good question. 

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