An old tin coffee pot, bigger at the bottom to catch more of the blue flame, a tight fitting lid with a glass knob in the center, sits on a black cast iron grate on top of a white porcelain stove. The flames curl around the base and blacken the curved edges, it gurgles. Matching mugs are set on a red and white-checkered oilcloth that protects a wooden table top, one mug in front of each of the two blonde wood chairs. She cuts two slices of homemade bread and puts them into the slots at the top of the toaster. The room, still unaffected by the early morning sun, is dimly lit by a single bulb hanging from a cloth-covered cord connected to the plastered ceiling above the table. I watch the blue flames lick the sides of the coffee pot. The pot chugs once more and then again until it finds a regular beat for its perking. The toast pops from the toaster and receives a coat of butter and a resting place on a saucer on the table. She pours the coffee into the mugs, a full cup for her, a half-cup for me. She is thin, with long silver gray hair tied tightly in a bun. She moves slowly across the small kitchen which is also the dining room and bedroom. The time between our births was seventy-one years; I am young she is old. She gets a quart bottle of milk from the refrigerator, pulls the pog and pours my cup almost full, mostly with the cream that has risen to the top of the milk. Just a level teaspoon of sugar, she places, I stir. Warm, light, sweet, brown liquid waits while she prays for the new day. I watch her mouth as she makes words quietly, she speaks to God not to me and He can hear her whispers. Finished with her prayer she cuts my toast into five strips and takes a sip of her black coffee. I dip a strip of toast into my light brown mixture and take my first bite.