An Open Letter to a Cup of Coffee

Day 15/40

I revisit the series of writing letters to inanimate subjects. Again, I know coffee cant see, hear, taste, feel,  or smell me. I know coffee can't think or feel anything about me. But I can about it. And if it could emote, if it could think, this is what I would want to tell it:

Dear Coffee,

I've gone lots of places to visit you. I have found you in every corner of the country I have been in. Sometimes you taste awful. But other times you taste like the poetry book I'm holding in my other hand.

Many have tried to define you. The Oxford English Dictionary says you're "[a] drink made by infusion or decoction from the seeds of a shrub; roasted and ground or (in the East) pounded; extensively used as a beverage, and acting as a moderate stimulant." But I think we can both agree that you're so much more than that.

You get the CEO and the coal miner to roll their feet onto their floor every morning. Whether that floor is dirty or clean doesn't matter. Their eyes are still so blurry that the only clear line of vision is to the coffeepot. And that's only a survival instinct. You're the lifeblood of the American dream.

First dates, job interviews, and chance run-ins happen in your midst. People peer down into your brownness when they can't find the words to say out of nervousness or solemnity. Somehow you're a source of comfort. Maybe you do have words to say.

Most of the time people complain about stains. Sometimes people complain about yours. But I find yours to be a reminder of a different version of myself. Like the iris of a long-gone lover, your rings leave a mark of things I once thought; things I had almost forgotten that bring back bittersweet memories of something I once had so much hope for I would've given anything, but only cross my mind when I find where you were sitting hours later.

You come in many versions. They drip you, steam you, brew you, ice you. You never complain. And you're a familiar flavor on their tongue, a lasting tingle on their lips. You seem so happy to be there.

I try not to visit you past 4:00 pm. If I do see you, you keep me up all night. Not the same way anxiety does. I close my eyes to try and sleep, my mind is empty, but you keep my heart vibrating. As you know, I'm really bad at tuning out my heart. I'll sit up until the wee hours with your presence in my chest as I think, sometimes write.

But I most enjoy you in the presence of the people I love. Something about love makes things taste sweeter, even without any sugar. You're the only thing that mixes well with morning breath. You transform the putrid smell into a lingering perfume. And something about bringing a cup to the nightstand next to someone still trying to get past the morning blur in their eyes makes the birds outside the window whistle more melodically.

Thank you for all the times you sat with me while I wrote. Thank you for being a good thing even when you taste bad. Thank you for being a constant reminder that while some things change, they mostly stay the same. And even though I don't ask you to visit every morning, I look forward to the mornings we do spend together. You're a constant friend, a taste of days gone and time to come. 

I look forward to our speechless conversations in the future, when I need you to clear the smear of sleep off my eyes. But for now, all I'll say is:

"Good morning."

-B