Devonne Brown

I smiled when the smell of coffee woke me at my normal waking time. I had one of those pots that had a timer on it, but I’ve never used it. Confused, I got out of bed and found my son in the middle of the hallway with my favorite orange Fiestaware mug in his hand, filled with black coffee headed  my way. “Here, Mom, just for you,” said the sweet boy. 

My eyes were wide and sort of misty, to be honest with you. Used to living alone, making coffee was a big deal. It was the first thing I did every morning, early, very early and it wasn’t a joy.

At least I was organized enough to have muscle memory help me prepare it. All the ingredients in the second drawer down to the left of the stove, filters in the back, coffee in the front, scoop in the coffee. It wasn’t hard, but to have that one thing done for me was epic. It was a monumental act of kindness. No wonder I was misty-eyed.

The coffee was rich and perfect too. I’m particular about my coffee. The boy accuses me of being a coffee elitist. I only drink Folgers medium roast. No fancy coffees allowed in my house. Two heaping scoops, and the scoops must be eyeballed just right, too. He has learned the proper proportions to a T. Bless his heart. His powers of observation are mighty. 

In addition to making coffee for me, we got to spend some time together before I had to get ready for work. We chatted about all the important and unimportant things the universe had to offer. We discussed a woman with a Ph.D. in breakdancing and her performance in the Olympics, and agreed her education on the subject was inversely proportional to her skill. 

He made a second pot, just as good as the first before the spell was broken.