When I was a little girl, my Dad would give me a thimble sized cup of coffee, or he would scoop up some of his own coffee in a creamer container. To me, it was a small taste of adulthood. Coffee was a warm invitation to maturity and comfort. Through this, coffee became for me, a rich connection point over long talks and sunny mornings.
When my age crept into the double digits coffee became a party drink. I would drink coffee as my sister would drive me to school in the mornings. Her mixed tapes would burst with the sounds of the 80s. Cindy Lauper letting the world know that all we really wanted to do was to have fun. It was true. My fun was being with her. To me she was more alive and powerful than anyone else. Driving down the highway, window open, her short hair waved in the wind as cigarette smoke curled out of her beautiful mouth. I would sip back copious amounts of that magic bean dosed with cream and sugar feeling drunk on forbidden music and being apart of her world. I would break free from the bounds of my childhood for a time.
School. High school to college coffee became a right of passage. Needing it was the norm during procrastinations set up of late night homework sessions. Then came the I feel so trendy all dressed up drinking lattes at Starbucks. Music that I had never heard drifted through the air. Trying to be cool, different, my own woman as whip cream was powdered with cinnamon or chocolate. All dressed up, hair done set the stage to pretend I was making a pathway and not just alone in the world. When I was needing a place to go the coffee shop doors were mostly open.
Coffee, the connection between my best love story and I. A random Monday, a day off, post work out I went to Starbucks. I even remember my hair was more lovely than usual. Feeling alive and unbound by my own desires for the future I set out to read a book and to revisit the comforts of that magic bean. There he was, wearing an old, red plaid coat. Broad shoulders. A peaceful strength like an anchor to my soul. My kind of handsome. I drank my coffee and laughed at my own thoughts. He walked over. He started a conversation that I never wanted to end. With an inquisitive and gentle nature his soft voice held my attention. Slowly starting the foundation of becoming my home.
Coffee, I like to have you ready for every morning. The aroma of you fills the house with comfort. It’s a pleasure to have you prepared. The man in the plaid coat, now my husband wakes up and sits with me at the kitchen table. His coffee steaming in the morning light. Safe. Happy. A little sign of my constantly growing love for him is that prepared cup of coffee.
Now in the mornings our little girl watches us and says “may I have some of your coffee?” Her voice smooth and melodious. She smiles mischievously after every sip. We invite her in to that special place. She is ours and we are her own. We share life with her. She is a special little person made with so much love.
Now a son. Needing more coffee then ever due to late nights and early mornings. I hold him. He reaches out with his little baby hands. Even he is drawn to that magical bean. He wants to be like us. He wants to hold the cup to his mouth even if he doesn’t get to drink.
Here we are, a family. Brought together over a series of directed moments sipping on our coffee, smiling, and laughing over normal life. We are thankful for love and it’s story. This is where we live in that mature, alive, noticed, safe, happy, soulful place of home drinking our coffee.