coffee: a learned love.

i remember
when i learned to like
coffee.

sitting at my papa’s front kitchen
table.

in the morning
with the sun joining us
through the front glass.
the screen door 
open and the
sound of john deer lawn mowers
humming in the summer air.


i’m the only one in my family
who enjoys coffee.
not my mom.
not my dad.
and the last time i checked
neither did my sister.

and i remember my papa. he
would be 
reading…reading something.
maybe the bible, but maybe
not.


his every word i absorbed.
these words have created a chorus,
a mantra within me.
that will forever reverberate
through my brainwaves.

“true lovers of coffee… we drink it black.“
he would say.

and black it was.
as black as night in winter.
so thick and muddy.
if i peered in, i could
see my reflection.

and when that liquid met my tongue
my face would 
cringe.  
i knew it did.
i tried to hide
it.
but at the youngness of six it can
be quite impossible
to hide one’s emotion and
instant reaction.


maybe he didn’t notice.
maybe he was generous.
maybe…
it’s hard to say.


sometimes the thick black liquid
would reside within
only one cup.
his cup.
and he would share.


sometimes the thick black liquid
would reside within
a cup
of my very own.


my papa
taught me the true art
of being a part of the mornings.


sip.talk.sip.silence.talk.
sip.
sip.
silence.

sparatic coffee sipping mornings
were fortunate
enough to occur between us.
because my papa’s kitchen
table
was just across the street
from the only house
i have ever known.


the morning sunshine would
beg my young
feet to begin the day
with a short adventure.


the dew that summer brings is
heavy and dripping
wet.
enough to soak socked feet.
enough to cloak bared feet.

freshly cut
blades of grass eager
to find a ride on the arch of
the foot
were my only companions in my
journey
across the street.


and so my education would
begin.
either from his cup or from a cup just
for me.
to learn to love
coffee.
in all its deep blackness.


my education is now long over.
mission accomplished.
my love
for black coffee
is deep and penetrating. 
slightly if not significantly
boarding on
addiction.


but i think my papa would be proud.
and just smile
perhaps with understanding.


my wanderings now
have lead me to many a good
cup of coffee.

but there is still
something about 
the sound
of coffee perculating.
the smell
that fills the space.
that reminds me of that kitchen table.


of my papa.

because that sipping was about more than
just the coffee.
it was about us.
about being together.


and.
i think it was about
mornings.
because even now there is something about
mornings
that call me.
some desire in me
to rise and come
sit awhile.

my body reacts to this.
it craves the silence.
it craves the simple conversation.
and yes…
it craves the coffee.


this conglomeration of words is dedicated to
my papa. 
rest his sweet sweet soul.