I love coffee. It’s not the taste or even the warmth of it as I clutch it my hands. It’s the memories that accompany each taste and sip.
Pumpkin spice lattes remind me of the fall shopping trips I took with my best friend in high school. Rap, country, electronica, and indie songs filled one of our cars as we fought over playlists on our phones.
Black coffee reminds me of my late grandfather. He’d trail his finger back and forth along the handle of his mug as he related to my sister and I stories of his childhood. Now it is my sister’s hands that continue this habit.
Caramel lattes bring forth the shifts I worked at a fast food restaurant with my friends. The giggles that erupted from spraying each other with the dish hose and were quickly shushed when customers approached late at night.
Iced coffee reminds me of the relaxed days I watched Jane Austen adaptations when life became too much. Constant repeats of Pride and Prejudice calmed my rancid and racing fears as I fell into step with Lizzy’s quirky attitude.
I don’t know why the smell of Arabica beans makes me smile. It is a strong and strange smell. I do know coffee triggers memories that are forever linked to my identity and will take me back to any time in my past.