55 |
Sitting down , I looked at him , and it was as if he had gone from a grown man back to a younger boy . Looking up to meet his dark brown eyes , He had tears as he held the mug ever so gently . I was taken by surprise when he spoke . His voice , normally full and rich , was now soft like a prayer , he said : “ I remember drinking coffee with your grandfather during the summertime . Early mornings when we ’ d have to get hay for the horses ”. A CASTLE He didn MADE ’ t have to OF say SAND anything , WE more BUILT . I knew AND what he meant . To have that special time with his SCULPTED , MELTED AWAY SO EASILY BY father , to share a cup and just be able to talk . No THE PUSH AND PULL OF THE DEEP BLUE one else but him , his father , and the coffee .
The air in the room had gone from heavy gray to a warm yellow as the sun rose . I stood and wrapped my arms around him , squeezing as if letting him go meant I ' d lose him , he did the same . At that moment I knew , coffee transcends the material world , it becomes something more . Like an intuitive connection between a father and daughter , coffee is a ritual , a solemn ceremony that follows procedures like an experiment to reach equilibrium .
|
SUMMER VISITOR BY JASMINE MCCOY |
56 |