Faded Green Colored Plastic Coffee Cups

You know the face that someone makes when they take a sip of coffee. That inward, “brace yourself for something hot and bitter” mouth movement. The hand grips the cup, the cup comes up, it suddenly swoops inbound and that face happens and the coffee gets delivered. Magical.

Photo courtesy via Creative Commons

My Grandma Fran was a perky little Irish lass, er sweetheart. My Grandpa's sweetheart that is. Fran liked her coffee and I remember her drinking it in the morning and the afternoon. I remember her drinking it from the faded green colored plastic coffee cups. What a life. Knowing who ya know, tending to the family in spitfire fashion, sending Bud off to work at the quarry.

As a child, when staying with her, the interest in her coffee was not evident to me. There was far more concern then, for the amount of sugar to pour upon the floating, circular cereal (scrape the bottom the bowl for more); or the pleasing heavy smell that popped from the wooden pendesk as you pulled the lid and opened a world of pens and pencils and paper, stamps, inkpads and rubber bands; the impact of lit match for cigarette as you wafed in the light plume of sulfur; the itch of the hay, the call of the kitten, an odor of oil and grease within the tractor shed, the pang from the electric fence.

I remember my Grandma and her coffee moments, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee cup (and probably an ash tray), looking out towards the barn. And that is a pleasant thought for which I carry - and move on, taking that snapshot with me.

The hands start nimble, they grow calloused, then wrinkle.
The cup fades with each use, even the stain from coffee shows wear.
As does the memory when bombarded by impulse each moment.
But, love always.