...I enter into my kitchen
where the sight of my coffee machine next to the stove soothes me.
First, I open a plastic flap at the top that houses the reusable
filter. I know that the left over grinds from yesterday mornings
brew need to be washed out. I carry the basket to the sink and
carefully wash the soil looking crud away, revealing a brown-stained
pearl colored filter. The sight sometimes reminds me of how much
I used to hate coffee when I was young, which then conjures up
images of black liquid trickling down my esophagus, and into my
stomach. Words like “adulthood” and “danger” seem apt in those
moments. I place the basket back into the machine and fill her
up with cold water and four scoops of Folgers.
-Carmen
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