coffee: my lover, magic maker, pickle jar opener
It’s early. The sort of early without light. The sort of early that allows me to question whether the sun is meant to rise soon — an understandable wonder in my foggy state. It’s the sort of early that nudges me out of bed so I can wrap up in my tattered robe and quietly make my way to the kitchen.
The ritual begins. Heat the water. Grind the beans. Watch the drips. Fill the mug.
Coffee is patience. It’s proof that the sweetest joys in life are allowed time to come into their own. To fully develop. It is the result of love, a product of poise, a lesson in pleasure. It’s calming in the way only a soothing voice from someone familiar and knowing can be.
Take a sip.
Let your lips feel the warmth, and follow the sensation all the way down. Coffee is sensual. It’s smooth and careful until it’s not. It’s unrelenting in its desire — a desire to ignite, a desire to make you feel alive. It’s quick and dirty when the morning demands such aggression, but it prefers the pleasure that comes from a slow build. Sip by sip. Sip by sip until the anticipation turns into electricity moving through your body.
Can you feel that?
Coffee is cozy. It’s a fireplace and fuzzy socks on a wintry day, and it is the sweet reward after a long, cold run. It’s the familiar sweater you rediscover on the first chilly morning of fall. Coffee wraps you in nostalgia flinging you back in time. It’s your first slow dance song from middle school, the evocative scent of your first love, your first taste of freedom as an adult.
It’s a light hand on your cheek — a signal that something magical is coming. A signal that for a moment, you won’t breathe and that it will be the best moment of your day.
Inhale.
Coffee is the me too moments. It’s where two people fall in love. And out of love. And back in it again. Coffee is a lifetime of sweet notes and secrets and full conversations had simply with the exchange of one look.
Coffee is makeup sex.
Coffee is just. It doesn’t discriminate. It is sophisticated, yet simple, and undiscerning; and it is the great equalizer, performing magic on all who take their seat. Status doesn’t matter. Character doesn’t matter. Homes. Cars. Careers. Irrelevant. Coffee moves through all with intention, with purpose. Coffee moves through all with intention and purpose, creating sparks of life in those who seek it.
Seeking coffee. Seeking sparks. Seeking magic.
Coffee is common ground. It’s neutral territory for those who need such level fields. It brings together friends who share stories from the past and lovers who plan stories for the future. It’s where colleagues go to talk about work and not work, and it’s the space that lights up artists, fueling a sort of wild creativity that is stumped by all else. It’s where dreams are sketched — sketched on tiny, crumpled napkins, and it’s where poetry begins.
It’s how I’m writing this.
Standing barefoot in the dirt or curled into myself on the couch, coffee is quiet like the early morning. It’s quiet like those early morning moments of exquisite stillness before the world begins to stir.
Coffee is my friend. It’s my confidante, my date for life, my pickle jar opener. It’s my hand-holder and my champion, making the impossible possible. It reads with me and dances with me, and adventures with me. When the day is so much that the night becomes more, coffee sits with me.
