A Story of Black Coffee

I first tasted black coffee when I was in 3rd grade. It was Saturday night and I was wearing purple pajamas, could not sleep so I walked to living room and found my dad smoking his cigarette while watching TV. Mom allowed me to drink it, the same black coffee she made for dad. It was black and bitter but I really like the smell. It flowed through my nose, my lungs, and my brain. It energized my body, made my eyes focused. It was the first time I stayed up all night long with dad, only the two of us.

Dad’s gray eyes looked at the TV but did not focus at all, looked at somewhere I could not see. I knew something had been troubling his head but he did not tell anybody. He sipped his coffee, I copied him but he did not realize it. He was not there with me and I doubted he felt my presence beside him. I eyed him from head to toe back to eyes, his was empty. I looked at it, deeper, deeper, and deeper, felt his solitude, his pain, and his tired soul that he did not show to his family. I saw him standing alone against light on a pathway looked at the sky. He was older and weaker than his actual appearance. He turned his head, saw me, and he smiled at me.

And that day, I realized I have fallen in love with this man. I prayed to God to always fill my heart with love for him so I can always see his smile.

We sipped our black coffee.

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I always remember my man and that night when I see or drink it.

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