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brewing the coffee and remembering summer


I pulled the bag of coffee beans
from the refrigerator door.
I could already smell the aroma of the flavored coffee:
this time I picked Bewitching Brandy.
I loved the smell.
I treated myself to these flavored coffees
at only special occasions.
I closed my eyes and inhaled,
filling my lungs,
intoxicating myself with the bouquet.
I hadn’t even opened the bag.

I walked over to my coffee pot,
the one that makes just one cup.
I set the white bag down on the counter
and opened the top of the bag.
I reached over, grabbed a spoon,
pushed it into the coffee grounds
and dropped a spoonful
into the bottom of the pot.
The glass pot was a little wet on the inside,
and some of the grounds
stuck to the sides of the glass
before they could fall to the bottom.

I then took the boiling water
and poured it into the pot,
put the lid on it,
and set it down to let it brew.
I sat down at the table
and watched the steam rise
from out of the spout.
The steam poured out,
like it was trying to get away,
as fast as it could.
It looked violently hot.


I then remembered summer.
I would have flavored coffee at work
over the summer.
Work was my haven,
my home away from home.
My home away from him.

I brought some coffee beans home
for my mother once.
A week later, while eating dinner with my parents,
mother thanked me for the beans.
Father, after eating in silence,
finally said he didn’t like them.
I don’t know why you had to change.
I liked it the way it was.

I couldn’t believe they started to argue
over coffee beans.
Mother vowed to it like a religion;
father discounted it like one.
It all seemed so silly
and senseless,
so I finally spoke up.
I was only trying to be nice

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