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| Me and my mom circa 1970 |
Two-year olds don’t drink coffee. Unless they are born in New Orleans. Unless their mother is busy with three older children: uniforms, lunch boxes, homework in the book bags, combing hair so that Sister Laverne would not again give a look that says “I know you mean well, dear, but can you do something…”
Two-year olds don’t drink coffee unless they need it. Unless they are worried. About Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in the hole. About going to school. About the homework sheets and pencils and book bags and lunch boxes. What is in the lunch boxes exactly? Is it peanut butter? I hope it’s peanut butter.
Two-year olds don’t drink coffee.
But I did.
I needed my coffee. Thick with sugar and milk, more like warmed coffee ice cream. Going down my throat, I could feel the heat outline the center of my chest, eventually my whole body, saying, “You are this big.”
I needed my coffee. My mom making me a mug as she poured hers. Just me and her. In the kitchen. I am on her lap, the top of my head just high enough for her to rest her chin on. We both take a sip, lower the mug back down. Sip and lower. Sip and lower. Morning is here. Sip. Lower.
1969. We are new to Dallas. My dad comes in, pours a cup, reads the paper across the table. The crepe myrtles that line the driveway burn in the spring heat. In 7 minutes, he will go wake the older three on his way to the shower. I will stay here until she lightly taps my back, “Ok Shel, time to get movin’” and then I will lose her to the day.
I will live this ritual for the next 46 years, bringing me to this morning. Even the year I think I don’t like her. Even the week I travel to Prague. Especially the first morning I teach a class. The day my son dies.
But for now, I am two, and I lean back. The smell of her robe, of the coffee, of the sugar and the milk.
Sip. Lower. Sip.
I love it. I remember sitting and talking with my mom while she ironed, we'd talk about who knows what but I loved it. She ironed everything: sheets, dish towels... It occurs to my just now for the first time she did all that ironing so we could talk.
ReplyDeleteShelly, you are stinking cute
ReplyDeleteMichelle, this is wonderful. I am really looking forward to reading your love letters. Every morning I had coffee with my mother. Maybe coffee bonds many mothers and daughters? I remember I had a small mug that was mine in the early years. It held an "acceptable" amount of coffee for someone who was six, according to my mother. Every morning before school, sometimes after...the quiet moments... winding up for or down from the day. I still meet her for coffee every now and then. Maybe it's Mom and the memories I find so comforting, and not the coffee, like I tell myself. :) Cheers, Michelle.
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DeleteWhen I visit my mom in Dallas (I live in Ohio), I still love getting up early and having coffee with her before anyone is up. It says all is right with the world.
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