I "made" coffee for my grandma.
Ran the water as hot as I could
Then added the spoonfuls of instant Sanka
And the little Saccarine pills that fizzed in the coffee.
The I would make a cup for myself as well
It was decaf after all, so no harm done.
It was then I learned what simple joy there was
In presenting to someone a simple cup of coffee.
By the time I was 13
My grandmother was gone
And I was drinking the real thing with my parents,
They had a coffee grinder that held a pound
Of Eight O'Clock coffee beans
That we ground directly into the coffee pot.
For the rest of my life
I have worshipped at the altar
Of the Goddess Caffeina.
No matter how broke I was
I made sure there was coffee.
No just enough for my household
But enough for anyone that might drop in.
Coffee is hospitality.
Coffee is me now, and the younger me
That stirred the Sanka for her grandma.
And if I wish to gauge the depth of my affection
I ask myself this:
Truly you may have the shirt off my back,
But would I let you have the last scoop of coffee?