I’ve stopped drinking coffee.
It was hard and I would be lying if I say I didn’t miss it.
There is no way to wean coffee out of your life. I tried, but it didn’t work. The beans in the bag became stale. The grinder had an irritating whirr! as I prepared the french press. The hot water seemed to hurt the grinds. The absence of harmony was prescient in all these ritual ways and I should have seen it coming. I was selfish, stupid, and damn near impossible to reason with as the addiction to the precious liquid became too near, too dear. I became so dependent on coffee. It almost seemed as if coffee stopped me. Which I took absurdly personal.
I had an annoying incident with the makings of a headache. It never seemed to become a full on pain, but just suggested a fogginess, a blunt ache that was two inches away from my forehead. I was weak. I was sad. I was lonely and it was such a harsh offing of the sweet bean, that I wasn’t sure I’d ever have happiness again.
Then it happened. It was late, and I might have had a bit too much to drink, and it could have been the salsa music voluminous in the bar, but I grabbed the first exotic tea I saw and asked it home.
That first sip of tea. I was nervous, and I’m a little too old to admit that without a small trace of feeling bashful. It was sweet, and the tea was very hot, and I took my time, and I sipped. I sipped it all night till I got to the very end. I searched and searched my thoughts on what it made me feel, what flavours it brought to mind, and relaxed quietly on the bed.
I drink tea now regularly. It keeps me up, give me energy, makes me smile. It’s sustained me for a good four years now (off and on), but a good four years.
I still think about coffee. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about coffee. Usually in the morning, when I first wake up. I can smell it’s thick breath, and recall the way I took it in with my nose first — the heat and notes nurturing my joints and muscles in my face. My eyes opening while the wires in my brain connect with speed and grace. My tongue taking in the hot liquid as I close my eyes for a moment to savor blending all my senses. Through past to future, finally awake in the present.
I still wonder though, how coffee is doing. I wonder if it ever thinks about me. My son. I wonder that coffee hasn’t reached out.
But coffee is coffee. And you can’t tamper with perfection. Sometimes it took me seconds to brew a perfectly good cup. Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes I would drive an hour to get a brilliant bold, and wait twenty minutes while they brew a fresh pot and it didn’t feel like waiting at all.
I miss you coffee, and I think about you often. I hope you’re doing well.