Street Metals

Even at her worst, Stacey always seemed to marvel at the spirituality in being awake before sunrise. There was something so serene in padding into the kitchen, going under the sink to grab the appropriate sized white metal pot from the set with the red painted rims and matching rubber handles to boil water on the stove to make the daily pitcher of sweet-tea. The size of the pot along with the size of the pitcher varied over the years and one would assume that was because the variation would correlate with size of the family.

Nevertheless, the sweet tea brewing was only part of the ritual. Every morning the opening up the front and back door along with the window over the sink to let the air meander about your home. They say leaving it’s scent in your dish towels, table cloth then into your front room pillows and cushions chases away any spirits of evil that were left lingering around from the night before.

And prior to one lighting the sage, the house typically smelled of baby powder, hair gel, and the faint scent of black tea that was beginning to brew on the stove.

Sometimes , if she was feeling sassy and sure of herself,Stacey would take a leftover Captain Morgan bottle, fill it with water, and let it sit under the full moon for the duration of the phase then poor it into the plastic decanter with the hot pink and neon yellow pineapples on it, drape the appropriate amount of tea bags over the rim and let it sit out in the sun for a day.

So not only was brewing the family tea the beginning of a cleansing ritual,it was the most important step in the familial communion.

Her mornings, no matter what had happened the evening before were the healthiest habits Stacey ever obtained. She’d wash, exfoliate and moisturize her skin with the products the lady at the corner would make and sell at her little table she would drag to the makeshift farmer’s market the city was trying to promote for it’s one hundredth attempt at a revitalization. But Stacey liked the products almost as much as she liked spending the little bit of money she earned to keep her skin looking like she never allowed those foul smelling men from whatever dive bar they crawled out of to abuse her. Like she never pierced her own skin with a needle to try to chase away the way she abused herself.

She routinely cleansed. Not unlike that of a baptism.

After her skin care routine, teeth and hair brushing, she’d clean up after herself and then pad down to the kitchen to get the tea brewing. Then she’d sit at the tiny white kitchen table with the three tier ceramic candy dish, grab her pocket Bible and her rosary beads to say her morning prayers. Stacey was no more catholic than she would be awake at that time of day, but rituals are habit forming.

Even with the addition of her baby girl, Stacey found a way to wake up early every morning to thank God for her blessings even if she had to whisper them.

But on this particular morning, over sipping large mugs of extra strong coffee splashed with cream and in between nibbling some freshly baked sweet bread with butter,there were more than prayers being whispered. as Stacey and Dennis were speaking in hushed tones with flittering nervousness. They carefully discussed the massive changes that were about to take place in their lives while their newborn was sound asleep upstairs.