The cold set in like an unwelcome visitor. Foreign to us all here in the South. I'd taken to a daily mornin' cup of coffee. I'd say it kept my soul revived but that'd be the simplest of responses. Even admittin' my daily habit wouldn't be enough. No, I am my Father's daughter, no matter the weather. He'd have a cup and so would I. The older I become, the more likeness I find. No longer here to share is guidance. I find myself lookin'for him in the littlest of things. In my mornin' coffee.
In my bowl of Gumbo. The smell filled my nostrils as I walked through the front door. My bags dropped to the floor, as I rushed in the kitchen. There it sat waitin'. Waitn' as promised. A huge pot of Gumbo and a rice cooker full of rice. Well, maybe my family in the Southern Louisiana would say, "I know y'all shame, That ain't but a swallow." But to me, it was a sight. The gumbo warms my tired soul. The winter does that to you sometime. The settin, the kitchen, I grew accustomed to long since gone an outgrown. In it's place shiner and new. But, the warmth, love and taste remained the same.
Until we meet again spring.