Banjo, coffee, and soft morning plans

Woke up to the kitchen smelling like coffee and the banjo humming in the corner, sun sliding across my freckled cheekbones. Harvest Moon is on low and my alto keeps trying to follow along; the whole house feels like its own slow tune.

Four years ago a Saturday conversation turned openness into a steady practice, and it still lands like being chosen every morning. There’s a soft thrill in someone who can sit at our kitchen table, talk to Wyatt without fuss, and stay curious — bring an instrument or something built to last, and I’ll bring the banjo and a warm cup.