I’m not sure that she ever set foot in a Starbuck’s. A Caribou. But to say she wasn’t already aware, would be incorrect. I’ve said it and heard it a million times, “…it’s about the experience…” I suppose every coffee-shop goer will tell you that same thing.

Wasn’t she a part of it, so many years before? Brewing her coffee on the farm stove. Slowly. Filling the kitchen with the scent of sped awareness. Filling those shallow cups around the daytime table. Continuing the conversation from the morning’s party-line telephone call. Each cup filled again and again without the need for asking. Hiding the grounded proof that lay at the bottom of each cup. As they pushed in their chairs and walked out the swinging screen door, my grandma’s friends had no need for goodbyes. They would be connected forever. By telephone lines. Coffee grounds. And shared experience.

I brew our coffee each morning. No farm in sight, but certainly in heart. Each sip brightens the conversation. And the last taste, always the strongest, still offers the proof that I am part of it all. The party lines and forever friends. The love of family. And I am home.

…so it begins.