"Do not pity the dead, pity the living and above all… those who live without love."
Just a Cup of Coffee
My mother once told my sisters – at the age of young – any ailment that should ail you, any pain that should pain you, and any sorrow that sorrows you can be cured with one cup of Armenian Coffee. Almost like heaven my mother told them, adding that it has been this way for generations just as her mother drank the powerful substance and her mother before her. It has a certain quality, my grandmother started, able to make you forget everything. Also depending on how sweet it is it can change your entire disposition. This liquid is so powerful that a despised enemy can become a friend simply by sharing just one cup of this ambiguous substance. But be full of care, my mother warned, for when you reach the bottom of the cup all of its powers reverse. It leaves you wanting more, this addicting substance and if u have seen me and your grandma drink, you know these cups are rather small. It was only then when my sisters and I realized why my grandmother drank it so many times in once day. She drank to forget the deaths she had seen, to reverse the heartbreaks she had endured, and to temporary relieve the things that ailed her.
As my sisters and I came of age, we each experienced the benefits of this drink but neither I nor then gained the strength to live without it. So we all sit her at this square table now, looking at the tapestry my grandmothers grandmother had sew so many years ago, with the strings she had found while walking through a desert in 1915. We all exchanged glances – my sisters, my grandmothers, my mother, and I – as we talk about this memory, coffee in hand, all of us smile and remember our great grandmother until we come to a point in this moment. Soon the bottoms of our cups meet the saucer and we look into one another’s eyes, noticing our smiles turn to sorrows. Each of them takes a look into their cups to see the dark, heavy substance left behind the delicious drink. They all look up in shock but I already knew that we had reached the bottom. Then my mother and grandmothers disappeared with their cups and my sisters sat with me for a while. We watched the clock. One hour. Two hours. Three hours pass till I decided to make another batch and as we took the first sips, my mother and grandmothers appear again and we have coffee with them once more.
Cup of Armenian Coffee (Credit to website, editing done myself)