Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | February 21, 2012

My girl

I am back from the peculiarly lulling cult of luxury cruise ship (thanks Mom!). What a rude awakening to have to make my own coffee again! Instead of having it delivered at the specified time to our private sunrise veranda by a slight, handsome, smiling, white jacketed Filipino man whose only apparent wish is to anticipate my desires for ice, cold drinks, and fluffy white towels.

On the phone with my daughter, I expound upon the cruel reality of having to remember how to make coffee my first morning back: with the $12/ pound custom-ground beans, the fresh pure water that runs effortlessly from the tap, the electricity flowing heedlessly to the appliance, the clean mug that awaits in my warm safe house.

She is working with Somali refugees this term: learning about life in the camps, hearing about babies lost to war, families seeking peace walking hundreds of miles across their ravaged country.

She waits patiently until I take a sip of my gourmet blend. Then she says:

“I read about someone who says they used to sit around in the camps and fantasize about how much better their lives would be, if only they had a bucket.”

That’s my girl.

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Responses

  1. Good one.

    When they make this blog into a movie, this post needs a dolly zoom.

    Like


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