Banning the Bean
Dashing home after third grade, I pushed aside
our heavy front door and ran inside
hollering,
“Mom, I’m…” when the odor stopped me
cold.
What in tarnation was that horrid
smell?
Couldn’t be—not in our home—not coffee.
Our religion banned that brown
bean.
It reeked of revolting sin.
Disobedience.
Dereliction. Disgraceful enough to
separate
our family eternally in the heavens.
Mom hurriedly, apologetically,
explained.
The brew was doctor’s orders.
Prescribed
to hopefully curb her excruciating
migraines.
I don’t recall that dank odor ever
permeating
our home again, but I do recall
Mom’s lifelong
struggle with her horrendous
headaches.
Did guilt keep her from rebrewing
the beans?
It’s been many years. Much has
changed.
The aroma of my morning cup of
freshly brewed
coffee wafts up, surrounding me with
warmth
and filling me with memories.
Thoughts drift
to Mom’s dilemma, and I envision how
wondrous
it would be if she might now be
reposing
on a cloud, at last headache-free, a
radiant angel
presenting her on each breaking dawn
with
the freshest mug of heavenly-scented
coffee
in the universe, sweetened to
perfection, laced
with starry-like swirls of cream
gleaned from
the milky way—and to top it off,
each golden
cup served completely, and eternally, guilt free
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