I love the old coffee makers with the metal filters you put on the stove.
The ones that have the glass bulb on the top so you can see the water percolating through the coffee,
becoming something new.
I can smell the coffee now as I’m writing this and
I recall visiting my Great Aunt.
At the time, I was too small to drink the coffee but
I enjoyed watching the process of her making it;
the ceremony of it even,
when it was being prepared.
Everyone knew what would happen
and by default would relax,
let their worries and muscles take a break
and chat about lighter things while they waited.
Percolation comes from the Latin word percolare, which means “to strain through.”
I feel like that often these days.
Memories percolating through me on a regular basis.
I’m not sure if I’m the water or the coffee,
but I feel altered.
I’m not sure if I should be concerned or just let the concern go,
since I’m pretty sure that these are old emotions bubbling up.
That didn’t have a chance to before.
So, am I the coffee or the water,
or the blending of the two?
Will someone enjoy sitting down with me over cake
or spit me out because I am too bitter?