So Long My Love
by Rachel Deveau
Wednesday:
I have given up coffee. While I was not an addict, yet, I was close enough to sign up for the ‘Coffee Addicts Club’ if such a club existed. I usually had a cup in the morning and sometimes at night too, if not several throughout the day. “Caffeine doesn’t affect me!” was my motto.
For me, the romance of coffee did not lie in the fact that it was useful to give me a pick-up. In fact, I never even noticed that ‘jolt of energy’ that it is supposed to give you. No, taste was the key. I grew to love the taste of the different blends.
Starbucks is popular, but only because it loudly broadcasts its variety of flavors, and while most of them are good, I have found even better, more pleasurable blends at smaller places – the hometown local-owned cafes (which usually offered free wi-fi, an extra plus). The different blends were like different colors on the shirt of someone you love. They had hidden subtleties – like the way the moonlight touches his eyes or the freckle on the tip of his nose. They enhanced the being of coffee and made coffee what is or was to me.
Coffee was not Folgers. And still is not Folgers, even though I have not had any for a bit (and it’s only been a short time, so don’t pat me on the back).
I gave it up for fear that I soon would pass the point of no return. Perhaps, to the average person, denying the full possibility of love is cruel, but at times it could be very necessary; especially if it is the love of inanimate objects. “You gave up one love for a greater love,” is what I tell myself.
Two weeks later:
After drinking tea for a couple of weeks, I had my first cup of coffee. It was a stressful day at work and I had a long night in front of me, so after running a couple errands I found myself pulling into the local coffee spot to order my usual – Large Drip. Since I just ‘gave up’ coffee I decided to order a small drip.
What happened next is not surprising and has already probably been guessed; I couldn’t drink my small drip. Even with the added sugar and couple shakes of cinnamon, I gagged down my drink. Besides the fact that I had spent money on this drink, my heart was at stake. I was going to drink that cup of coffee to the last bit of grounds.
Days when I could drink black coffee and enjoy the nuances of different blends skittered and dove into crumbs around my feet. I tried my best to finish that cup, but in the end I threw it out. Then I noticed my heart beating much faster and started running and leaping through the mall with the security guard chasing me and people watching in puzzlement. (ok, the running and leaping might be slightly exaggerated).
Looking back I see that my body had moved on – I had forgotten coffee. People move on. Life moves on. Going back to what ‘was’ is never really going back. We can only be going forward – forward toward the chance to maybe have even better times and moments than what the past holds.
I miss my coffee. I miss our late nights and early mornings together, but it may be time to move on to a different lifestyle, or perhaps a new drug.
