Discussion In My Coffee

Discussion In My Coffee

That day Daddy walked into the house, I felt strange. Fearful even. He had a look on his face like he'd just swallowed a skunk.
“Daddy, what's wrong?” I asked.
“Honey, your mama died today.” Daddy answered.
I bit my tongue to keep from crying. I would be strong. I would not cry. At first Daddy's words didn't take effect. How could Mama be dead? I saw her just this morning.
My name's Anna Maria. I'm eight years old. I have flaming red hair that I wore in braids and several freckles on my face. The only thing that made me different from every other kid my age was the fact that I drank coffee, and a lot of it. Some people say coffee stops kids from growing.
“Stupid,” Mama had said, “You drink it. And look, you're tall!”
“Anna, honey, I'm sorry. She died in a car accident.” Daddy said, he sounded terribly shaken.
I couldn't take it anymore. I burst into tears and went running up the stairs to my room. I remembered all the fun Mama and I would have playing Coffee Shop with that little coffee maker in the basement. We'd take turns. One of us would be the clerk and fill orders and one of us would be the customers and make the orders. Mama and I collected coffee creamers of pretty much any kind of flavor. We had at least 30 different kinds. No kids from around the block were allowed to play Coffee Shop, but that didn't matter to Mama and me. Sometimes Daddy would get it on the fun and play that hard to please customer.
Just remembering playing that made me want to play it again. I walked down to the basement and started the coffee. The flavor was plain breakfast blend, but I could spice it up with some chocolate creamer mixed with cinnamon creamer.
As I played, I got so caught up in it that I didn't see Daddy come up behind me.
“What you doing, Anna Marie?” Daddy asked.
“Making coffee.” I answered. Daddy winced as if I said some very bad word.
“Honey, your Mama's gone. You don't have to make coffee.” Daddy said.
“I know I don't have to but I want to.” I answered.
“But, honey, don't it hurt?” he asked.
“No, Daddy, it doesn't. It stops the hurt. I can remember Mama through the one thing she loved. Through the one thing I love.” I said slowly.
To my surprise,Daddy actually smiled. I had thought he was gonna scold me.
“Come on. Lets play Coffee Shop. I'll be the customer.” Daddy said. I smiled and put the coffee maker on a card board box that was suppose to be our bar and I picked out some creamers and lined them up beside the coffee maker.
“I'll have some regular with chocolate.” Daddy said promptly.
“Coming right up.” I said. I poured him a big ol' mug full of coffee and mixed in the creamer. About that time I remembered what Mama used to say.
“Nothing heals like coffee.” I repeated. Daddy smiled in a way that said he agreed with me.
“It needs some cinnamon.” Daddy said. I poured the right creamer into his mug.
“Now it needs caramel!” he said. I poured caramel in his mug.
“Now it needs . . .” Daddy said, allowing his sentence to trail as he thought of something else to add.
“Irish Cream!” I suggested.
“That's right. It needs a lot of Irish Cream.” he said.
Daddy and I continued to mix up coffee for the rest of the day. Afterward we went to the supermarket to get more creamer and played Coffee Shop the next day too.
When school started, Daddy and I played Coffee Shop every morning before the bus arrived. Even when I got to be 21 with my own job and home, I'd come back each morning to play Coffee Shop with Daddy.
I guess it is true what Mama says. Coffee CAN heal anything. I enjoyed my discussions in my coffee shop with Daddy.

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