It was a sunny, September morning. I was sitting at her kitchen table, having coffee and observing every little detail around us: golden rimmed yellow cups, a crystal butterfly on the fridge handle, a luscious hanging plant above our sitting places, one of her cats by the window. Miss Butterfly had breakfast ready: butter in a tiny butter cup, wild berries jam, Amsterdam cheese, and an assorted selection of bread. As I took in the sweetness of the room, she got down to business and began preparing my cappuccino using both of her coffee machines: She favors one for making the coffee and the other for foaming the milk. The later has been with her since her days in Poland. I wonder if keeping it is not about the foam but about holding on to her once upon a time ... Our conversation is far from superficial. It's as we had known each other from before. Miss Butterfly , my Agnes, is a photographer, a mom and wife, a woman. A Po...
