This is the table of tart and strong. A birthday breakfast made for myself this morning. I pry biscuits from a can whose sides split and pour hot water through biscochito coffee grounds from this state I know as home, sans sugar. A friend's gift comes unwrapped (yellow paper with florescent pink skeletons dancing in their flexible bones), and her universe joins my own at the evergreen cloth table top. A postcard of three Buddhas perched against a vase of stargazer lilies flash peace signs. Am I showing my age? I'm sure that I am. A day ahead with work calls and deadlines, in other words no day off for this responsible daughter. Even my father's card blows a sparkly horn proclaiming its heritage gifts of patience and efficiency. So, who am I to question others; all of us pushing, pressing, breaking and anticipating. Cranberry chutney on white bread. Coffee in a sturdy black mug. Heat shuffling through the rooms. I am a reliable companion in need of a haircut. Tonigh