Mother’s attic

I went on a journey today. The drive to my mother’s home was quiet for my daughter Natalie and me. We watched the wintering landscape as we drove through the back roads that led into the countryside. We drove toward the lake where the cool wind found its way across the water and into the house through the brief entry into the back door.

We had a cup of hot coffee as we looked through old photographs of relatives we only hold through brief memories in our mind. We talked about the past and reflected on our times in other days. We ended up in the attic looking through long-ago packed boxes... boxes with fading labels written in black magic marker.

We pulled through crispy packing tape that had weakened from the exposure from summer heat and winter cold. The sturdy cardboard resisted our grip as we pried them open… exposing old news print that had weathered to caramel brown. And there was Mom… telling the tales of the past with every item.

We found old stoneware and glassware that once held the gravity of our ancestor’s desert home. There was an old bamboo serving tray from the 50’s along with bamboo cups and an ice bucket. We filtered through fragile tea cups and sturdy milk bottles that held the scars of decades of use from metal racks delivered to front porches by men who were known by their first names.

And there was a familiar coffee pot. I didn’t remember its existence until my eyes fell upon its familiar shape. The stainless steel held its shine and its form. The slender pouring spout came to a smooth point in front of the glass dome that adorned the top. And I remember… I remember watching the red, glowing light that grabbed my attention while the percolating coffee popped against the glass dome in a sound I remember in the kitchen of my youth.

I held it close and remembered the sound of ground coffee being scooped into the coffee holder. I could see my mother and my grandmother steadying the slender straw-like aluminum tube that sat in the bottom of the pot. It guided the hot water to the glass dome that directed the water over the coffee granules. I replayed the task when I got home tonight… with the same anticipation.

And I stood watching just as I did ages ago. I listened for the pop of the hot water and the sizzle that echoed from its insides. I watched the red light on the front of the base. And I stood in the memory of my family with the aroma of mornings past. I blinked as the red light went out… signaling the coffee was ready and I poured some coffee into a heavy stoneware cup.

I held the glass dome with one finger as I poured with the other hand. And I inhaled the sounds and the flavors of my youth and am grateful… grateful for the quiet reflection.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman