Old rusted pitcher

I started the day a little hung-over... but not from any over-indulgence the night before. Truth be told, I don't drink at all. Alcohol, I discovered years ago, brings on migraines, and the pain just isn't worth whatever pleasure might be gained from good wine, which was my vice in past decades. So you can blame my bout of melancholy on the Red Sox, or, more to the point, on the end of the baseball season. Even though it finished on the highest note imaginable—an unexpected world championship—it's now over. Done. No more baseball until pitchers and catchers report in February for that misnamed ritual, spring training. Nor did the morning walk lift my spirits. It was one of those almost-November-of-the -soul days that threatened rain and bleakness. This rusted, ancient coffee pot almost confirmed the mood. But what I initially saw as an artifact of a time gone by, never to return, changed the more I pondered the object. Someone once used this to brighten the morning with the aroma of the elixir of the gods, well, my gods. There was coffee waiting at home. We could have lost the Series, instead of winning it. My hang-over vanished. Coffee can do that.