Habits

"There's coffee in the pot," someone says to me as I'm scooping out my Nescafé instant coffee into a mug and adding hot water from the dispenser. "All good, this is faster," I reply. I tell people I'm lazy for preferring instant coffee to the real stuff. I tell people it's because I don't know how to use the coffee machine (this much is true but I’m sure I could learn if I wanted), a variety of excuses that look like I'm making my usual self-deprecating jokes. All to avoid the truth because it's just too painful to explain and I don't want to bum any of my coworkers out first thing in the morning because of a cup of coffee. The truth is that drinking this coffee reminds me of someone—of a morning ritual I got into because of that someone—it reminds me of a time I don’t want to have turned into some distant, hazy memory. Sure, I've since made that over-burnt powder more palatable with a splash of hazelnut almond milk, but every time I take that first sip I'm briefly transported back to a small blue kitchen in Murrumba Downs, Australia.

“What are the coins for?” we would ask, as he emptied his pockets of loose change every day on his way in from the shops. “Pirate treasure!” he’d exclaim gleefully one moment, the next declaring it his brother’s inheritance when he died. Later, he’d sidle up to me, quietly cackling, and state that it was for the church, and his brother would have to bring it to them in his pockets, jangling all the way, “looking like a right arse!” he declared. I never did find out the real reason for the coins. There had to be at least $20 worth, if more, by the end. Piles upon piles of coins I would idly sort into their proper order as I sipped instant coffee every morning. In the end, I find I can’t remember what happened to the coins. But I’ll never forget the cheeky grin that came with every reason for their existence. I’d like to believe that was how he was on his own, not with the assistance of boxed wine and Oxycontin. I think it was, but I can’t remember for certain. Maybe it was me bringing out the best in him again, the only one who could convince him that life was still worth living. But he was tired, oh so tired, and I’d arrived too late to have much impact. So now I find myself wondering about a load of coins, and saving all of mine. A currency I have no use for, except to serve as a reminder for one of his quirks. I also find myself drinking bitter instant coffee, a habit I don’t actually enjoy, but maintain for the memory of waking up, receiving a hug, and putting the kettle on for a coffee and the start of another day with him. It is the daily routine of morning and nighttime hugs, perhaps a bit much for any other 25-year-old girl but I would relish them—making up for the lost 10 years without them. Now I sip at a terrible coffee and try to remember the comfort in those hugs during a time when I wasn’t allowed to cry or show any emotion related to what was happening, other than gratitude that I could be there at all. So if you wonder why I drink burnt instant coffee and sometimes look a little sad, it’s for the memory of hugs long past, and not the quality of the drink.