Coffee - Part II

When I was a little boy, about four or maybe five, I started drinking coffee each morning. My father, Alvin, woke before sunrise and waited by the door, looking for the newspaper delivery while the percolator pumped a viscus, oily brew. I positioned my bed just right so when he turned on the kitchen light, the beams would glare into my face, waking me. I joined my dad at the kitchen table and waited for my cup of darkness to cool. He liked his coffee black and hot enough to blister your lips. I liked mine with milk and sugar. I poured the milk just so, watching the clouds form and reform. I still do this. Mornings were not about coffee for me. Mornings were about watching my fathers hard knuckles wrapped around the sides of the newspaper. It was our time. Men stuff.

When my father died, I took his wedding band off his finger. The 50 year groove made it difficult to remove. I knew the ring as well as I knew his face from all the years of staring at his fingers wrinkling newsprint. It is heavy and scuffed. Men stuff.