gratitude

sit in the corner of the dark bedroom waiting for the time to pass, get up to go to the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, using the little machine which only finds use on weekends and holidays.
Look across the living room, see that the neighbours are up and about, they are awake early, perhaps they have a project today.
Then notice that the son is sleeping on the couch, he must have got up earlier and then felt tired.
Teenagers. He will be fifteen this year, there will be more difficulties coming, so people say.

Take the coffee back to the corner of the bedroom, that is where the desk is, the computer for news of the world. British politics is drifting to a situation that is being guided by incoherent dreams, dreams fed by the past, by the failure to realise that past glory is done with. And american politics, it is unclear what they want too. Follow the news every day, and get no wiser.

It is raining outside, as the forecast had said, drips from the roof, and there are gurgles from the drains.
It is the weekend.
Let the cat in, she makes a short sound. It is like a thank you.

But she is a cat. She may mean something entirely different.
She may have no concept of "thank you"
No idea of gratitude.

Maybe only humans expect that.

It is now time to get washed, dressed, enjoy another cup of coffee and to go about the days business.