I used to work in a coffee shop. Because that’s what graduates with liberal arts degrees do. I actually met a guy who was a member of a Christian Rock band “HyperStatic Union” and he was excited that I got the play on “Hypostatic Union.” He said I was the first person to ever put them together, at least in their presence. I explained that I had a double major in philosophy and theology and would he like room in his coffee?
Ah coffee. No matter how often I say that Jim Bean is my mother’s helper, the truth is there is no helper for a mother like coffee. There is no liquid that is taken as seriously as coffee. I learned, as I became a coffee master, the details and depths that coffee knowledge can go. Coffee is a precious commodity. And it is to be savored, delighted in and valued.
With this in mind, I would like to thank coffee for all it does. It makes me almost coherent. I look almost human. I manage to get dressed. And sometimes my shoes even match. I am prepared for nearly a third of the things that my children will spring on me. Coffee, you have been good to me.
I, though, have not been good to you. And I apologize. You deserve better than to be left for twenty four hours in the microwave. It’s a vicious cycle. I need you to function, but I fail to function enough to enjoy you.
I probably shouldn’t let you sit for two days in the pot. You want to help and improve my life, but it’s hard as you are ignored for days at a time. And then abandoned in the microwave.
I should have protected and respected you more and not let Mac paint the kitchen floor with you. Please don’t take it as a sign of disrespect. Just distraction.
I apologize for the cars and dinosaurs dipped in you. If I had my druthers, it would only be biscotti that graced your rims, but sometimes a child is hanging by one leg from a bunk bed and screaming. And by the time I get back to you, you have been swept off the table and into the Jurassic era.
I’m sorry for the toddler backwash that you are forced to endure. And the fact that sometimes I just drink you anyway. You deserve better than to be coughed in, while being discovered. Being poked by little fingers is actually a sign of how very interesting you are.
Someday, somehow, it will be just you and me again. And we will sit uninterrupted together. In peace and quiet. And we will pass judgment on all the other people in the nursing home.