Coffee Cups and the Hands Who Hold Them

No matter how old I get, I am convinced I will never forget the smell of coffee wavering through my grandmother’s house. Somehow, no matter how many years have passed or how many coffee shops I have braved in pursuit of it, the scent is unmatched, the coffee unique in a way I am still seeking to understand. It’s fresher, somehow, the kind of coffee that wakes you up long before it reaches your lips, the kind that lingers in the air faintly even as the morning turns into the afternoon and then into the night. Ever since I was a little girl, this is what I think of when my grandparents come to mind; the mornings when the smell of fresh coffee jolted me from sleep, when I leaped from the couch on which too many family members lay sprawled and was greeted by a bustling kitchen filled with half empty coffee cups and the sound of familiar voices hovering lightly over the morning news.

Though 6 hours away from where I grew up, my grandmother's house has always felt like home, and the people who fill it have always been my family despite the distance which separated us. On the weekends spent visiting, the smell of coffee would remind me where I was even before I opened my eyes, reminding me to get up, to start my day, to enter the kitchen eagerly and soak up the scent of limited seconds with those whose hands were warmed by the ceramic mugs. At the time, I had 15 cousins, all of whom were scattered across Florida, far apart enough to keep us distanced but close enough to be able to make the trek to my grandmother’s house when the time came.

During those years, her seafoam green home seemed more like a fortress, impenetrable and perfect in every way one should be. The house, designed and built from the ground up by my grandparents, would become a symbol of the family being created in its likeness; a three story house with only two bedrooms, it was designed to be filled with life, having two kitchens and three living rooms which were constantly filled by as many people as they could hold, and sometimes even more than that. It was filled to the brim, ever changing, alive in the way it harbored the memories and upbringings of all those who had the privilege of passing through it. It was alive, too, in the way my grandmother sought to ensure that we never entered the same house twice; upon arriving, there was excitement in re-exploring and reimagining the house we had once known, in getting to know entirely new spaces born from nothing but her creativity, imagination, and desire to keep things exciting in any and every way she could. From the outside of the seemingly uniform home, one would never expect the Mexican themed floor which they would be awaited with, complete with sombreros, maracas, and even a life sized parrot toilet paper holder. This, though, is my grandmother; fun loving, bright, and a little eccentric.

After a 6 hour drive spent eagerly awaiting seeing my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins for the first time in months, turning the corner and seeing the house in its entirety never failed to offer a rush of adrenaline and surprise. I have vivid memories of the front door swinging open before we even had the chance to unbuckle our seatbelts, of my cousins racing to the car wildly to greet us with open arms, eager to pick up where we left off and begin playing as if no time had passed since we last did. Running up the stairs, I knew I would hear the hissing of an empty air freshener followed by that of my grandmother’s beloved pet which my cousins and I not so lovingly dubbed “Nasty Cat.” I knew that when I made it to the kitchen, there would be a bowl filled with fresh green grapes, and I knew my grandfather would be there waiting with open arms and a wide smile to exclaim, “Have I told you how much I love you today?”

Though our trips usually only lasted a handful of days, they were ones which were no doubt filled to the brim, reflective of the house in which they were spent. My childhood is adorned with memories of days cramming onto my grandfather’s boat, my tiny body drowning in an orange life jacket as my imagination and those of my cousins soared to new heights, my family members becoming the side characters in our games of mythical creatures. I remember the way my grandmother lent us even her most favorite visors to shield us from the sun, and I remember how my grandfather would patiently allow each of us to sit on his lap and navigate the ocean, how he would point into the distance and steady our tiny hands around the steering wheel lovingly.

I remember how, once we got home, we would fight over who got to help my grandma cook dinner, wearing her aprons around the kitchen as we shadowed her in awe, watching as she concocted meals crafted to fill the bellies of 10, 20, sometimes even 30 people at a time. I remember squeezing onto the living room sofa after dinner, tiny bodies pressed against each other as we resentfully let the day come to a close, enjoying the knowledge that, when we woke, there would be time left to spend still.

And I remember the way I would fall asleep, eager to wake up and do it again, waiting for the smell of coffee to engulf the air once more, for the kitchen to become crowded, for the morning news and the excited chatter and the cereal boxes and the contentedness of being together, of being whole, after so much time was spent apart. These were the days when everything seemed simple, when the house seemed untouchable by anything that was not pure, that was not the blissful laughter of children playing or the peaceful mornings of a family reunited. These were the days when the kitchen was a sanctuary, the morning news a blaring background noise, the chatter a lighthearted banter, the cereal boxes the most imperative of worries to a house filled with buzzing children. These were the days when voices were simply voices, and the hushed tone in which weighted words were spoken went unnoticed by more than a dozen naive minds. More than anything, these were the days when coffee was a hopeful reminder, a promising signal; soon, it would be recognized as a tool, as a means of easing signs of restlessness and wiping away nights spent worrying, spent fearing, spent agonizing.

As years began to pass and the days of playing pretend seemed to be long behind us, my grandmother bred an idea which has since been the glue which has often held my family together: Cousin’s Week. Though it was becoming more and more difficult to plan a trip which fit into the busy lives of each of her 5 children, my grandmother set out to have all 15 of us under one roof, and she somehow managed to make this idea a reality. At the time, my cousins and I were dispersed across elementary, middle, and high school, yet, somehow, my grandmother made the week one which each of us could enjoy and cherish. The first Cousin’s Week was an elaborate one, complete with a scheduled itinerary, sweet 16, and a talent show which was created amongst all of the children and put on for our parents at the end of the week under the tiki hut in the backyard. I look back on this first week often, amazed at the chaos in which this tradition was formed, how the yelling and bickering and flying pillows in the living room amounted to a custom, to a foundation, to a life source.

What amazes me even more, however, is the way I never looked past the morning coffee cups to realize the furrowed brows or pursed lips which so often rested behind them, how I never traced the smell all the way back to the need for the liquid strength which was concocted day in and day out. As I grew older and began to crave a taste of what was in the mugs, to yearn for an understanding of the people who sipped from them, I started to see the ways in which the childhood which was so carefully curated for me was not always the whole picture. The more years which passed, the more I began to tune into the kitchen counter conversations, to thieve tidbits of information of family heartaches which I had been shielded from for most of my adolescence. Thinking back, I remember the first time I stole a taste of the scalding coffee, the way I witnessed my grandmother as a shield and begin to see the bubble she had molded around us inevitably melt away; I remember the way she stayed strong even as she heard the words, “I don’t think she’s going to make it” over her phone in the same kitchen which had come to be her haven. Time and time again, my grandmother did what she does best; she faced hardship and she sought to lessen the blows of her children's pain, to lead with empathy, stability, and selflessness. In these years, I began to realize that my family was made up of more than just blissful boat days and elaborate dinners; like many, we had struggles, and hardships, and affliction.

All the while, though, even as events unfolded constantly and conversations continued to occur around hushed countertops, Cousins Week continued, the tradition never breaking despite the many circumstances which may have sought to destroy it. Looking back now, knowing more than I ever have before yet still almost nothing at all, I cannot fathom the strength my grandmother holds and the determination she has carried with her to keep our family together even in the times when it seemed to be falling apart. When I was younger, my grandmother was a superhero for the way she whisked recipes without a cookbook or the way she hosted weeks taking care of 15 children with the help of only one other adult in sight.

Today, she is one for the way that she did these things with a smile on her face despite every reason not to, the way she fought to hold our family together and somehow made it so that I never even noticed it was anything but. It is because of my grandmother that I know the value of family, the value of spending a week sleeping on a living room sofa and stealing sips from coffee mugs and fighting over refrigerator magnets. It is because of her that, even despite living extremely different lives hours apart, my cousins and I have been able to still, somehow and someway, be kept close by our one week in the summer when all that matters is how to make the days feel the longest and the nights feel the quickest.

And it is because of distance and proximity, of marriage and divorce, of unexpected births and unthinkable tragedies, that this realization remains. Still to this day, my grandmother hosts a Cousins Week every year, cramming as many of us as can make it into her now two bedroom home. It is still my favorite week of the year, one which is anticipated all the same regardless of how old we may get or how busy our lives may become. Still to this day, there are struggles in my family which I cannot even begin to comprehend, and behind all of them there is a woman who refuses to lose sight of the family which she has created in the midst of them. And, still to this day, the coffee fills the air every morning, and it can be expected when we lay our heads to rest every night.

Even now that I have become a part of the countertop conversations and have learned the hushed tone and am one of many whose lips delicately sip from the same mugs all of these years later, I don’t think I will ever forget the little girl who is still in me somewhere, still fascinated by the coffee and the house in which it was made, the hands by which it was created. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell of it lingering as the sun crept its way up, or the excitement in the kitchen as the day began to play out, or the deception of the morning news as it play unwatched in the background, or the heaping bowls of cereals and the tiny hands which dug into them. And, because of my grandmother, I know I will not forget the happiness, the love, the simplicity of being together and the ease of which we slipped back into old habits and forgotten innocence and familiar friendship.

As I navigate my own journey and come to discover the woman I wish to be, I often find myself emulating my grandmother, yearning to capture even a sliver of the compassion, strength, and selflessness which she wears on her sleeve to this day. I wish to mirror the way she masterfully turns strangers into friends, the way she cherishes a good party with good food and even better people, the way she efficiently updates her Facebook status to let the whole world know she is contentedly surrounded by the people she loves.

More than anything, I want to carry the scent of the morning coffee with me everywhere I go. I want it to fill my lungs, and I want to live my life knowing it is still there, still living within me and fueling everything I do. One day, when I have my own home and I create my own family the way my grandmother has done for me, I will fill it with the scent, and fill it with the spirit of the woman who taught me what it means to unconditionally and selflessly love. Until then, though, I look forward to many more peaceful mornings spent waking up to the scent of fresh coffee and getting to enjoy it with the woman who taught me to appreciate it.