Dear Coffee
P.S. I love you
I’ve been meaning to write you a letter for a while.
Do you remember how we met? Oh, I know you’ve ruled our family from the beginning of time — but I am talking about how you and I met.
The year was 1979. It was March and I was busy preparing for my Grade 11 exams.
One chilly morning, after I returned from the milk-booth around the corner — oh yes, those were the days of milk bottles — I got back to my books. A few minutes later, Mom brought a tray with two big tumblers of coffee and sat beside me to enjoy the sunrise with hers. Who knew that would become a lifelong tradition with us?
What was so special about that particular morning? It was my first cup of coffee. Ever. At first, I was shocked. I thought Mom had forgotten to bring me milk. But she smiled and said, no, she hadn’t forgotten, she’d just figured I might like to taste coffee.
And it was love at first sip.
I still remember that moment. Bringing that cup hesitantly to my lips and taking a tiny sip, afraid you would scorch my tongue. Boy, were you hot! Pun intended, of course, because you still are! And yes, I was mesmerized as you trickled down, warm and delicious, into my throat and onward, to take permanent residence in my heart. It was like coming home.
