Coffee

It was a cold dreary morning when we left the motel room in Ohio. Hungrily, I eyed the small variety of complementary continental breakfast choices splayed out in the compact lobby. After a mediocre bowl of corn flakes, I decided I needed something warm.

            “What’s that?” I asked my father, peeking over the rim of his steaming cup. “Coffee,” he stated, rather groggily. “Is it good?” I inquired. “Try it,” he shrugged. “Can’t you describe what it tastes like,” I whined. “Only you can perceive what you experience for yourself,” he replied blatantly.

            Swallowing my growing curiosity, I took a teeny sip. It was horrid. And it scorched my tongue. Instead of spitting the black liquid out like I’d wanted to, I gulped in the bitterness – the coffee burning all the way down.

            Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but I claim it was the acrid taste. I just couldn’t fall asleep that night, lying awake in bed, unable to shake the memory of that taste, that terrible taste.

            Whatever the cause of my insomnia, I’d learned a valuable lesson. My dad was right in saying that only I could decide the taste after trying it, for everyone has unique responses. But the question was, was that cup of coffee worth giving a try? Is everything worth giving a try? I would soon learn that in many cases, I’d need a dose of common sense and a shot of audacity.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coffee