Coffee Grace

My father died last year, suddenly and terribly. Because of extenuating circumstances, not even a week later I was combing through his house, sorting through stuff -- essentially rummaging through his LIFE. Trying to decide what to keep and what was okay to let go. The emotional labor was crushing.

Drained, I limped to my cousin’s place, who’d readily agreed to house my crew for the weekend. And in the morning, she made me a cup of coffee.

It was the best cup of coffee. I can still feel the warmth from the cradled cup in my hands, picture myself hunched from exhaustion at the kitchen counter, deeply breathing in that distinctive aroma. I tried for months after to replicate it. I bought different brands, and flavors, and creamers. I finally texted my cousin, embarrassed, to ask EXACTLY what kind of K-cups they use, desperate to reproduce that brew.

And when it STILL didn’t taste the same, the primal part of my brain finally waved the white flag. Allowed my frontal cortex to whisper: maybe it’s not about the actual coffee. Maybe it has nothing to do with the coffee.

Something terrible happened, something unimaginable -- and in the morning, someone showed up. With a cup of coffee. Coffee that promised me: it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or next year, but eventually. Morning will come, and you won’t be alone. Someone will be here to make you coffee.

It was a small gesture, but somehow it spoke to the deepest parts of my soul. There was so much connection in that routine act. It made me feel safe and taken care of, worthy of care. It made me feel loved. When everything else was falling apart, that cup of coffee held me together.