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He knows it's time to wake up even before he's fully awake. The mattress suddenly feels weightless under the bones of his spine. But it’s the smell of Mexican dark roast wafting from the kitchen that stirs him into consciousness. He cherishes it because of the way she prepares the divine brew -- praying over the beans first, then manually grinding them, then watching the water boil in the cezve until the dark elixir spills over its brim.

He knows all the tenets of mindfulness, having meditated for over three decades. The 'being-in-the-moment-and-seeing-the-world-in-a-grain-of-sand' thing sounded good when he was younger, mainly as a distraction or an excuse not to do the work that mattered. But now, at 89, the pain in his gums, the hurting joints, and the clogged arteries make the art of noticing a luxury he can no longer afford.

He knows he will have to die someday and is almost ready to accept it. But she, ten years younger, started taking piano lessons in January, practicing every day, as if melodies and harmonies could protect her from the ravages of time. Leaving her here alone would be an act of cowardice. So, he shuffles into the kitchen and stands behind her, silently, smelling her hair and watching the water boil in the long-handled pot.

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