I still use a old and rusty stove top espresso machine. It does the job very fine, is much easier to clean and best of all it keeps all the freshness locked inside.
As the water begun to boil, I added the crushed beans. For some reason, I remember a day from the past vividly - when i must have been all of 9 years - my mom had given me a cup of coffee which was much less milk and less sugary than usual - strangely, the kind of coffee that I would very much adore today - but I still had milk teeth then - and I had just plain hated the coffee. It had been very bitter and the taste had an odd bite to it.
I had silently walked to the toilet and drained all of it in. 1-2-3 flush and traces of the crime had vanished. I had never told her about this ever.
As I had walked back from her cremation - I had this strange feeling of many a incomplete conversation. I distinctly remember feeling empty like a singing bottle. As if it was I who had died and not her. I also recall wishing that I could somehow tell her that on the day She had been born, and very much from there on, I had realized multiple times how incomplete my relationship with my mother had been.
The coffee was ready by now. I poured myself a dark brew, no milk and no sugar - and this time no toilet crimes.
As I sipped the manna, I remembered sharing a coffee with Her. This was just prior to the point we lost each other addresses. The coffee slurp was the only noise in the air. The silence was loaded. There were secret tales of grimes on both sides. I had wanted to blurt out some of my excesses. I wanted to tell her how I felt. Conversely I wanted to hear Her story.
We never ever have spoken again. I knew she did not care much for coffee, Her choice always was tea.
As for the college girl, She loves coffee, and She loves the way I make it. What She hates though is the broken mirror through which She saw Her and me.
She calls me once a year, usually on my birthday, and she says a few sweet nothings and then she is gone.
As I drain the last tears off the coffee cup, my mind clogs up on the bitter truth. We all had stories that we so desperately wanted the other to hear, and yet we have let the solitude quell it. When my pyre is lit, the unheard truth is going to be burning in the stake. The crackle(s) you will hear from the fire are going to be the final echoes of a whisperer trying to tell some little secret from his living years.