What did I hear! My kind of coffee came the morning I drove to my favorite coffee shop. “Whole bean or ground?” I heard him ask. “Ground, yes ground. Number seven.” I told him.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” He asked. “Complimentary?” I inquired. I knew it was. But I wanted to make some conversation, I missed talking this morning. “I’d like a small oat milk latte. Thanks.”

I looked around. The empty chairs seemed to mourn for their usual customers, their backs tilted on the small round tables. I’ve had fond memories here, sitting with Todd* or Dee*, meeting friendly strangers, talking on the comings and goings of our lives.

I purchased half a pound instead of my usual quarter. Who knows, I thought, this privilege may soon vanish. I picked my delicious smelling coffee. Sniffing the tightly closed coffee bag, I went over to the next counter to get my small cup of complimentary latte; a sheet of transparent plastic separated us. The young man’s black curly hair fell on his boyish brown eyes. “It’s ready,” he said to me and offered my cup. I tasted one sip; “It’s good.” I said. He was still facing me. “I’m ready for the return of the King,” I added.

His brown eyes smiled above his mask. I shifted my mask and smiled back.

*Names changed

Only three small squares left. Relishing the deep pungent smell of cocoa, I ate the last pieces of my favorite dark chocolate.

Ah! A poem on love inside the paper wrapper. I spread the paper on the kitchen countertop; like an ancient scroll I was careful how I pressed it with my fingers. The title read Love (III); below the three verses was the author’s name – George Herbert. He seemed faintly familiar.

The poem opened with “Love bade me welcome.” I continued reading while each line charmed my interest.

Who is this author, I thought. I looked into my old English Literature textbooks left in my school days bookcase. His name was not in the modern era. Memories rushed to my mind as I recognized some of the poets’ names.

Finally I found him, an early seventeen century Welsh writer. I read the poem once again, on that dark chocolate wrapper.

If she had succeeded to let go of my life off of her womb, this writing here would have been non existent. I clung to her. I am now given the chance to introduce myself: My name is Lucine, my father’s was Vahan, my mother was called Eva.

I love words, English words that evoke the cadence of a sentence. There were plants and trees that helped me keep on, cats and kittens, songs of people and stories. All helped me survive. Lots of tears flowed for some losses, misunderstandings, rejections.

Even so, here I am