Strong Bonds

I just wanted to fit in; to be like them. I wanted to be part of it. I started when I was 16.

I started drinking coffee.

At my family gatherings, be it holidays or an out-of-the-blue Sunday lunch at my Nana's house, there was always coffee to be enjoyed. My Nana would brew her biggest pot, usually assisted by my mom or one of my aunts.

It was a ritual of sorts for the women in my family; my most cherished people. The coffee would start brewing and fill the open kitchen with the sweet, robust smell and the gurgling sound of the drip machine. Nana would take 4-5 ramakin sized cups and line them up in front of the pot. There too she would lay out an old jelly jar of granulated sugar, and small boat of cream. One by one they would all line up to pour themselves a cup and douse it with their preferred levels of sweetness. Once their coffee was in hand, and accompanied by a plate of sandies, they would return to the living room area.

They would all gather around a large, live edge coffee table. And it was there that the chatter, the gossip, motherly scolding, sisterly jabs and sharing would bubble over.

And I just wanted to be part of it, which I was by proximity, but not by anything else. I was 16, so I had no wisdom to impart, no gossip I thought relatable to share, no husband or boyfriend to spill secrets (or complaints) about. But... they also weren't merely sharing feeble stories and jokes. The content of their conversations are some of the earliest memories I have of learning what it was to be a woman. I listened as they dove into topics of their careers and stresses at work, how they managed to balance these stresses while raising their children. They shared stories of their high school years, which inevitably led to discussions about their childhood. Missives from my grandmother of "I always knew he would not be good friend or boyfriend to you," when discussing past loves were repeated. I gathered descriptions about the 7 houses they lived in throughout their lives, and how my "Grandfather, the Architect" easily got bored and dragged my grandmother from new design to new design.

I silently watched one day and felt the collective sadness as my eldest cousin dispelled details about her dad's terminal cancer. We all patiently listened when my aunt brokenheartedly shared the details of her divorce. These were the pieces of life that I knew nothing of, but I somehow also knew that they would be some of the more important lessons I would be taught. Even if that just meant simply listening, and sipping.

The only way I saw into this ritual between these strong women, was by making myself a cup of their equally strong coffee. And then one day, my Nana suggested I make coffee for everyone. I followed each step I had observed throughout time, to a T...Or so I thought.

In my later years, I came to realize, that the pot I made that day - and in truth I believe every pot after that - was indeed strong, too strong. I know that now, recalling how each of the cups of coffee I would make, usually remained never fully drunk, half full, and growing cold as the minutes went on. But there we sat on those afternoons, giggling, sharing, and learning over our cooled cups. Now in my grown age, when I sip on my morning coffee each day, I am reminded of the strong bonds built over strong coffee.