Stick with me, as I grab you by the scruff. As I sling you upon my back– all hasty and maternal– and drag you along for a morning through my eyes.

But boy, are those suckers soft. And how grand does it feel to inhale the sun in a den of soft sheets? To wake up feeling warmth?

Stick with me as I tell you about the fur that floats through the stagnant air like samaras twirling down from the maple. How it tickles my throat, and how that tickle makes me sneeze, and how that sneeze makes my ears itch and– oh where was I going with this?

How that loose calico coat, that tortoiseshell tuft, clings to my clothes as a badge of pride. A neon sign on my forehead that says:

“I live my life adored by something!” 

A storm siren that bellows in her likeness, a fresh memory just waiting to be remembered.

I am grateful to have the clothes to dirty, and the washer to clean them. 

When that washer breaks (as it often does) and floods the basement below, it will inevitably soil the clothes in my closet.

But see how I kick these towels around limply and sop up the puddle? How I smile at the irony of a cleaning machine’s ability to make such an awful mess?

Stick with me, step over those wet rags! There– to your right. 

Now let me pour us matching cups of caffeine.

Let me tell you about my friends, who exposed me to the joys of a good French press.

About my former partner, who showed me the art of patience (and drip coffee).

Let me (probably) end up making us both “Donut Shop” K-cups and apologizing profusely, because I’m honestly still figuring out the whole “Barista” gig and my strengths have never really been in the kitchen–

but, see, I made these mugs we’re drinking from. And isn’t that something, too?

They’re wonky and unbalanced. The paint’s a tad gauche. 

But lately I’ve been thinking about how it’s kinda beautiful to be a beginner, too.

Cause then there’s nowhere to go but up!

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check out ross gay's original piece here!