Mornings

I have a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson taped to my work table: 

"For each new morning
with its light. For rest
and shelter of the
night.  For health and
food, for love and
friends. For everything
thy goodness sends."

I'm not a religious person, but I love this poem.  It's calming, and its simple message rings true.

But the morning is not so new by the time I get up.   This morning I came downstairs determined to be contemplative, to savor what I ate for breakfast,  to  breathe deeply and sit up straight (working on posture).  Jerry was already there, eating his customized mix of cereals, reading an article in the New York Times magazine about the popularity of baby names.

"This graph makes no sense," he said.
"Mmm."  I was determined to stay contemplative and thankful.
"The square for 2004-2010 isn't big enough."
"Mmm."
"Why would anyone spell Khloe with a 'K'?"
"The Kardashians?"
"Who?"

He dropped the lid of the peanut butter jar on the counter,  thinga-thinga-thinga all the way to still.  Then he put his toast plate down on his napkin and jerked the napkin out from under it in several movements, rattle-rattle-rattle.

"For God's sake!" I shouted.  "Just pick it up!  And stop with the baby names."

He bent over his toast and smiled.