by In All Our Years
When I wake up in the morning I am awake.
There is the kitchen.
A selection of nine coffee cups
wait patiently to be the one.
I find fresh water flowing
from a shiny reflective pipe
and pour it into a shiny reflective pot.
There is a container of liquid taken
from the earth, brought by a ship
to this island place, the place where
I was sleeping before I was awake.
A large white stove is connected to
the container. A simple turn of a lever
ignites the liquid, now a gas, into a perfect ring
of fire that will warm the fresh water that
is now in the pot.
As I wait, I am busy. There is still the
beans to tend to. Beans produced by a plant
with the help of the sun on a continent thousands
of miles due south east of this island place.
Note to self … use beans from the island next time.
The beans must then be ground into small particles.
The shinny pot is starting to growl.
While I have used a mortar and pestle to grind them
in the past, this morning, I will enlist the help
of electricity; energy generated by fossil fuel obtained
from the earth, that flows from a power plant along
rivers of oil and rock that I will travel over later in the day.
The energy powers a grinder made of plastic and steel
and pulverizes the beans in about twelve seconds. The mortar and pestle,
would have taken nearly three thousand seconds or more and exploited my own personal energy that I had stored from the day before,
made mostly, from bananas and nuts and an Ulu or two.
The shiny pot is singing.
The ground coffee is then placed into bamboo filter,
cradled in ceramic cone and rested on top of the chosen one.
The steaming water, once cold from the earth, is now hot and ready, to touch the grounds and flow next to each one, caressing and transforming the life they held stored in their being from the plant in the ground, that drank from the earth and gazed at the sun for days, months and years.
The ring of fire is put to rest.
The shiny pot is lifted up and over the bamboo cone
and tipped to pour the boiling water over the grounds.
The lucky cup is empty and waiting.
My mind and hand, steady and content as the steam rises and the scents of the plant’s beans, all roasted and warm, give of themselves for the one who, is awake.
With patience, the cup becomes full.
The shiny pot is placed back on stove.
The bamboo cone rests now. The grounds cool and will soon be returned to the earth.
Using my energy of bananas and nuts, I lift the cup from the counter and breathe in the lushness of her personal aroma. My mind takes me back to the time and place where I first met her, long, long … long ago.
And then a Brazilian Cardinal arrives out the window and squawks and proclaims that it will start to eat fruit from the trees. Most likely Bananas.
When I wake up in the morning I am awake, but as you have read,
it is a little more complicated than my first sentence proclaims.