coffee-2016

He used to make coffee for his mother every Saturday morning, climbing up the cabinets to get the sugar, pulling chairs over to the fridge to reach the cream until he was tall enough to get it himself. He was the first boy she knew who made her feel like a girl, always looked at her for a second too long, never pointed out when she did something embarrassing, she found herself walking a little taller after they met.  He liked listening to music on rainy days, leaving the record to spin long after it ended because he liked the sound, reminding him of the first time they kissed, the static after Fleetwood Mac’s “Mystery To Me” filling up the background. He liked her hair cinnamon auburn the way his mother’s used to be before it became withered and thin. Her hands reminded him of the summer days when his mother was strong enough to drive them to Silverwood Lake and wade into the water clutching each other’s hands as if there was enough warmth in them. He used to be sad about the memories he had of his mother, simultaneously afraid of remembering and forgetting them. Her understanding voice chipped away at that, though, made him understand that he was far from forgetting the twinkling moments in his life. He wasn’t afraid anymore when she told him she was moving away, too away far for him to ride his two-speed bike. They often spent nights trying to reach each other, stretching the spiral chords of their phones far enough to be able to see the same stars. Like every good thing though, it eventually ended. He went on with his life, knowing he wouldn’t forget her. He dated other girls, eventually got engaged to a light-haired girl from across the country. He made the girl coffee in the mornings, but she liked it black.