The Coffee

He was so still. The unmoving facial features were those I knew and grew up watching, but his energy was gone. He looked more like a lousy wax figure that resembled a person it was supposed to have depicted, but something was off. Either the symmetry of the eyebrows or the eyes too close together. I couldn't put my finger on it. Until I allowed myself to think it: he was dead.

It was the very first dead body I ever saw. Unnervingly still. A cold and unappreciated golem made of a lump of organic clay, ordinarily powered up by a divine spark, but his was already gone to never return.

I found him in his tiny workshop after watering the tomato plants. I hadn't heard any tools being used for a while, so I put down my dark green watering can, dented and misshapen with years of use, telling a story with its chipped enamel that carried the memories of countless summers, and casually popped my head in through the door, expecting to see him sitting on his stool hunched over his cup of coffee. I was greeted by stillness and a dripping sound. I say workshop... More than a shed, really. It was his dominion of creativity and never-ending missions to mend stuff neither of them had a particular need for. The place smelled of fresh wood shavings and glue and strong coffee he used to bring from the house in a flask. To save him going back every five minutes, he used to say. The plastic lid cup laid on its side, and the dark liquid lazily dripped on the floor with unnerving tapping. In the stillness of the workshop, the sound was like a thud. Or perhaps it was blood thudding in my ears as the unexpected dread filled every crevice of my being.

I saw his dusty boot, then his tired calloused hands limply resting alongside his body. And his waxy face. Unmoving glassy eyes, which would inevitably turn milky, and slightly elevated eyebrows, frozen in surprise and the unexpected finality of the event. They seemed to be saying: "What is the meaning of this? I've only just poured some coffee!" Did he manage to take at least a single sip?

I tried calling out, but the sound hadn't moved past the intent. I must have stood there gawping, surrounded by the scent of coffee, sawdust tickling my throat. I couldn't say a word. But then I moved towards him on my stick-thin wobbly legs that held me up with the herculean effort against my will. I was ready to faint. My body wasn't. I walked over to my grandad with an irrational fear that gave way to fascination. I was prepared for him to move, to spring up to his feet and burst out laughing saying: "Got ya!" but unsurprisingly, he didn't. I cannot say for certain how long I stood there for, but I still remember goose pimples covering my naked forearms, even though the weather was warm.

That night I cried myself to sleep. First time in years. And for the first time I knew my own parents are going to die.

It's been over twenty-five years since his funeral. Three weeks since she joined him. My dad picked his final outfit, which I knew he'd hate. 'You're fussing, Mick. What's wrong with a rugby shirt and my salmon chinos?' It was his pub night outfit. And that worn-out gillet. 'Bodywarmer' he'd correct me.

Dad stood at the door of the workshop silently. I watched his back trembling as he wrestled with grief whilst the gentle drought brought out the smell of wood shavings and glue. And the faintest waft of coffee.