Banjo strings and morning coffee glow

Coffee steams on the windowsill while a faded alto record spins—low and sure—like my voice before school. The banjo in the corner is reluctant to be still; it sounds almost like a hello.

Four years ago a Saturday run turned into the map Wyatt and I still keep consulting; opening our marriage felt like learning a new song together. If someone can bring calm confidence, talk to my husband with ease, and laugh at a guitar-strap joke, they'll get more than a cup of coffee—maybe a backbeat and a smile.