artwork by author
by Kristina Hagman
The old man held the mug in both of
his old wrinkled hands. Steam swirled up and brushed his face before
dissipating into the air. He breathed in deeply but shakily — his lungs were
not as they used to be.
The bittersweet smell of coffee
rose toward his nose, his brain knowing the scent before it reached his body.
Leaning forward, he picked up the small pitcher of cream in the middle of the
table. Pouring it in slowly, he watched it swirl with the dark brown of the coffee.
He added a packet of cane sugar and stirred gently.
Taking a sip of the hot drink, he
smiled. It was good coffee, for sure. But it was not as good as that of his
wife. His thoughts brought him to another time.
He walked down the frigid streets of New York, his hands
tucked tightly into a gray wool coat. The cold air nipped his skin, teasing the
warmth out of his breath. Walking just a bit faster, he turned a corner and saw
the coffee shop.
It was small but inviting, with a
cheery sign hanging in the window. It was empty; it was almost closing time. A
lone barista was wiping down tables, her sleeves pushed up past her elbows.
Not wanting to disrupt the routine,
but now yearning for coffee, the young man pushed open the door. A bell jingled
as he entered. The barista looked up, a pleasant expression on her face.
“It’s almost closing time,” she
announced simply.
He nodded, “I know. But coffee
sounded just perfect right now. If it’s an inconvenience, I could…” He gestured
toward the door.
“It’s alright. You’re here already.
And it wouldn’t be kind to have you wander in search of the second-best coffee
in New York!” She smiled up at him and moved to pour hot water into a filter.
The room was silent for a while as
the coffee machine whirred. It beeped after a minute or two, and the girl
prepared a cup. She let the foam settle on top and gave it a quick stir with a
spoon. Carrying it over to the table where the boy sat, she handed it to him.
“No charge,” she said.
He looked into the cup. A heart of
foam floated atop the dark liquid. “Why the heart?”
“Everyone can use a little more
love. Plus, it’s Valentine’s Day. You looked lonely.”
The young man came to that coffee shop every day for the
next week, until he worked up the courage to ask the friendly barista out on a
date. The old man sipped at his coffee, a smile crinkling his wrinkled face as
he remembered his first date.
It was another cold February day, and they were going
ice-skating. Shyly, the boy took her hand, emboldened by the pink that flooded
her cheeks.
They skated in circles, laughing
and sliding along. The girl’s hair danced behind her, the strands escaping the
grip of her hat. The tips of her nose and ears were red from the cold, but she
was happy.
When they were finished with
skating, the young man tugged her toward a hot chocolate stand, purchasing them
both a cup of the steaming liquid.
“Coffee is better,” she teased him.
Coffee was better, the
old man thought. It had been such a unique part of their relationship, one that
popped up over and over again.
He remembered his proposal to her, with coffee. It had been
a year after their first meeting — Valentine’s Day. He corresponded with her
coworkers and they allowed him to use the coffee shop where they first met.
He decorated it with Christmas
lights, taking her there long after the customers had left. One of her friends
acted as their server, taking their orders. She ordered a latte.
With its arrival, she smiled. It
had a foam heart on top. “Everyone can use a little more love,” she remarked.
He smiled back at her, nervously
sipping his drink as he waited for her to find the ring at the bottom.
The old man looked at his cup fondly, almost to the end of
his drink. He would never forget the shine of her eyes as she said yes.
He remembered the iced coffee they served at their wedding
reception. He remembered the coffee his wife gave him to announce her
pregnancy. He remembered the coffee they shared to consol each other after each
miscarriage. He remembered giving each foster child, all eight of them, a
coffee cup and coffee grinds as they left to go to college. He remembered the
solemn eyes of his wife as she gave him a cup of coffee, telling him that she
was dying. He remembered sneaking coffee into the hospital as she lay sick. He
sat there for a long time, and remembered.
He
glanced around at the coffee shop. It had been many things over the years
— a bookstore, a boutique, a small restaurant, and ever so often a coffee
shop. This year, it was a coffee shop. He came often, and the young hosts knew
his face. They listened eagerly to him as he told them how they shop would
change, how the world would change, how people would change, but how memories
would always stay the same.
