Reminiscence

Not my words, but my student's:

I used to love my father's coffee.

My father has always been making coffee for as long as I remember.
I believe he learned it from my grandma when he got married, in order to satisfy my mother's cravings.
Day after day, year after year, he has made the thick brew using the coffee sock (no lousy coffee machine) every morning, leaving it in a thermoflask for my mother.
It was probably all thanks to him and his coffee that I became a hopeless caffeine addict.
Rich, black and aromatic, it was authentic kopi-o down to the very last drop and was the very first coffee that I ever had.
I used to look forward to Sunday morning, as it was the only time in the week that I could wake up to the scent of freshly brewed coffee when I was young.
My mother and I used to fight over the coffee flask.
And when my father woke up the next day, he would inevitaby find the coffee flask drained to the last drop, ready for a new days brewing.

But lately, I have taken a new liking.
Nowadays, after my exams and studies, I would go down to the kopi-tiam nearby and order some coffee for take away, enjoying it at home when I got back.
As a result, I havent been drinking my father's coffee.
Quite oftenly these days, the coffee flask would be left untouched at the end of the day.

I just chanced upon the coffee flask this afternoon.
It was still full of coffee, luke-warm and slightly sour.
Brewed by my father this morning, before he left for work, just like every other day.
It then dawned on me that even though quite frequently now the coffee was left untouched, he still faithfully made coffee the next day, just as he has done for the past ten years.

I wonder what my father did when he found the stale coffee, untouched in the morning.
What he felt when he poured the day's efforts, unappreciated , down the drain.
Disappointed maybe, even slighly hurt.
But day after day without fail, he would still make fresh coffee in the morning, leaving it in the coffee flask for my mother and me.
What kept him going, I asked myself.
The habit of ten years?
Or something else?

We often picture love as great events, momentous occasions or heart-rending passion.
But the truth is that love in often found in the small details of life.
Little gestures and tibits that we often never noticed and take for granted.
Just like my father's coffee.
Even though sometimes I never drank it, my father still made coffee everyday for me.
Even though as we grow up we distance ourselves from our parents, in their eyes we would always be their children forever.

I poured myself a cup of the luke-warm coffee and drank it.
Delicious, just as the way I always remembered it.

Blog leh Shanyong. Miss your writing.