Morning coffee
Her fluffy blue slippers shuffle over to the kitchen. Her hands reach up, open the blinds, flick on the tiny light above the stove, take the red enamel coffee pot from on top of it, fill it with cold water from the tap.
Her hands, still soft somehow after decades of overuse – in washing water, in mother earth, in plucking chickens, in child-rearing – slide the small round tray from the gap between the side of the bench and the bread bin her younger son made in woodwork class soon after they arrived in Australia.
Her hands place the tray beside the stove on the small square of space just big enough to fit a small chopping board. Her hands reach over to the glass-doored cupboard above the stove and to the left, take two espresso cups, red with white dots, place them on the tray.
The water’s boiling. Her hands take up the long-handled teaspoon from the top drawer, prise the lid off the white ceramic cylinder behind the stove and to the right, containing coffee grounds. Her nose dips in, inhales.
Her hands slide the coffee pot half off the gas flame, scoop in two heaving teaspoons full from the long-handed teaspoon. Her hand gently stirs the coffee into the water, returns the whole base of the pot to the flame, reduces the heat to a quiver. Her wrist flows like music in curvaceous motion, folding the brew up from the base of the pot as though folding egg whites into chocolate mousse. Gentle but assured.
Her hand skims crema off the top of the coffee, scoops it into the base of each cup, pours each almost full. Her nose inhales again the aroma of the bean now filling the kitchen, spilling into the hallway, drawing him out of bed.
His fluffy pink slippers shuffle over to the small table in the living room. He kisses her on her ready cheek, pulls out his chair, sits to join her.
Her hands pass him his cup. His hands pull the sugar bowl close, open the lid, take up the souvenir Katoomba teaspoon beside it, scoop half a teaspoon into her coffee, a whole one into his. They prefer not to stir.
His hand reaches out, finds hers. They sip, smile, breathe, inhale. His darling, who he thought he’d lost, with their boys, the day the village fled and they were separated in the scrum. His hand squeezes hers. His eyes hold hers. The clock on the wall above them and to the right chimes eight.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Her fluffy blue slippers shuffle over to the kitchen. Her hands reach up, open the blinds, flick on the tiny light above the stove, take the red enamel coffee pot from on top of it, fill it with cold water from the tap.
Her hands, still soft somehow after decades of overuse – in washing water, in mother earth, in plucking chickens, in child-rearing – slide the small round tray from the gap between the side of the bench and the bread bin her younger son made in woodwork class soon after they arrived in Australia.
Her hands place the tray beside the stove on the small square of space just big enough to fit a small chopping board. Her hands reach over to the glass-doored cupboard above the stove and to the left, take two espresso cups, red with white dots, place them on the tray.
The water’s boiling. Her hands take up the long-handled teaspoon from the top drawer, prise the lid off the white ceramic cylinder full of coffee grounds behind the stove and to the right. Her nose dips in, inhales.
Her hands slide the coffee pot half off the gas flame, scoop in two heaving teaspoons full from the long-handed teaspoon. Her hand gently stirs the coffee into the water, returns the whole base of the pot to the flame, reduces the heat to a quiver. Her wrist flows like music in curvaceous motion, folding the brew up from the base of the pot as though folding egg whites into chocolate mousse. Gentle but assured.
Her hand skims crema off the top of the coffee, scoops it into the base of each cup, pours each almost full. Her nose inhales again the aroma of the bean now filling the kitchen, spilling into the hallway–
Her eyes register the two coffee cups. Her hands clutch her stomach as she recollects. His fluffy pink slippers lie cold on the floor on his side of the bed.
For D.S., B.S. and B.S. In loving memory of M.S.