Like many stories, mine begins with tragedy. I woke up one morning, twelve years old. Something didn't feel quite right. Was it the air heavier than usual? Different sounds? Did the floorboards creak louder when I tiptoed out of bed? My instincts led me downstairs to my living room. My family was congregated there. I knew, immediately, instinctively, that someone was dead. I began to cry. My vision fogged over. I lost all ability to stand on my feet.
My grandfather was dead. We traveled to the funeral, on a white airplane. Everything was dull, I lost the ability to feel as I listened to eulogies and cries.
After the funeral, I was famished. At the meal afterward, I ate. No one was watching what I was eating or drinking. A huge urn of coffee stood ominously, surrounded by sugar and cream. I thought I'd try a cup. One cup led to another. It's bittersweet taste was punctuated by "Yes, it's so sad. Yes." and "Oh, I'm so sorry" and "Anything. Anything you need".
That day, I experienced the beginning of sadness, and the beginning of my addiction to coffee.
On that awful winter day, I embarked on the beginning of a journey.
My grandfather's eulogy appears here
And I appear, here. Years later, I am here, still a coffee addict and a bit more of a picky one at that. I think back on that day sometimes, that day that began my love affair with coffee. A bittersweet eulogy, a bittersweet drink, a bittersweet future.
