Nothing means as much

Quietly
I rose on a Sunday morning,
wrapped my hair up above my tired face,
and slid slippers onto tired feet.
I was welcomed by the sound of parents
discussing gently
the beauty of half-and-half
with warm mugs snugly in their palms.
After all this time,
they still have coffee every morning
in the pale blue
of Seattle rain.
After all this time,
they still laugh at the jokes
they've heard for twenty years.
Through all these twists and breaks,
they still laugh.
I sit nearby with toast,
the butter melting slowly
diving into the dips
and kinks of the hot
brown bread.
And I sit.
Quietly.
Listening to the joy of parents,
of best friends,
and I think
of all the years I have ahead,
all the kinds of people I will meet,
and loves I will find,
but none will mean as much
as those two
with warm mugs snugly in their palms.
I will come back
years from now,
pains from now,
loves from now,
asking for that half-and-half
and those ancient jokes.
Nothing means as much.