Coffee.

Cut the rough brown sack. Pour the contents out. Roast, then crush. Simple as it sounds, it’s no easy feat. Not for a young girl of fifteen that has to life that 1kg sack. Plus, I did it with extra delicacy, enjoying the process of producing something and because the ‘fruit of my labour’ was for my beloved grandma.

It was a weekly event for both my grandma and I to spend a day, or if my schedule was hectic, an afternoon, but it was an enjoyable event that was worth looking forward to. I gained inexplicable experience and education from my though senile, knowledgeable and discerning grandma.

I observed as the coffee grinder crushed and pounded it into little beads, with finely powdered coffee escaping with each pound that descends upon it. My amazement reached a peak when the aroma of dark, bitter fragrances wafted into my nose and danced its way into my mouth, enticing my saliva to droll involuntarily. I had always been magnetized by the scents of coffee, but the smells I had only ever come across were from liquidified, strong black coffee. This time, however, the fragrance was more intense. The air I took each breath in was laced densely with coffee powder, intoxicating you with each breath, but making you come back for more.

My grandma altered my opinion of a jubilant day by further exacerbating my emotions. She passed a frayed notebook with a simple beige cloth cover that was dotted with yellow spots to me. She figured she couldn’t read the neat, fine, elegant scrawl of grandpa’s handwriting and could not memorize the complicated steps to a perfect cup of coffee, so she passed it on. I made sure my grandmother was in a clear state of mind as she was doing so. Sometimes she would drift in and out of ‘consciousness’, Alzheimer’s overcoming her at other times. She mistook me for my mother each time after being defeated by the disease. This time was no different, but I didn’t think it was anything major, so I subtly took it like a fragile, thin piece of glass. I flipped it with as little force as required, letting go of it like a dangerous spider each time I was sure the page would fall forwards itself, afraid that the brittle, yellowed page will tear. I scrutinized each instruction, and then followed it closely with precision. My reward, two cups of freshly brewed long back, credits to my grandfather’s invention. The pitch black coffee was slightly clouded by a thin beige layer that housed minute effervescence on its sides and graceful steams of hot air that spiraled out in a manner that would shame professional ballerinas. As garnish, I placed a scone on the sides of both porcelain cups. It was an export from Europe and I can still remember my excitement as the cups were transited to my house. It was a birthday present for grandma from grandpa. I recall playing with the bubble wrap which shielded it from harm but explode with a slight ‘pop’ with the force of my thumb and finger. The joy by dint of my curious expression on my grandparents face was still as clear as a high resolution photograph. I was five.

‘There you go,’ I exclaimed with pride as I laid the fragile cups lightly on the glass table from Elizabethan times. We were at the balcony. The setting wasn’t posh or pomp with magnificence to allow, but cosy enough for two that were comfortable with each other.

The wind danced alongside my grandma’s bunned up salt-and-pepper hair, with stray locks cadencing to the rhythm of invisible ballerinas. I gathered them and placed them behind her ears with much care. Seemingly devoid of physical affection, she cherished each time someone cam close, be it the heat radiated or just the security of having someone beside you to hold. She lacked this security that dissipated together with the death of grandpa.

‘Thank you, Tracy,’ she replied in response coarsely, her crumpled hand skimming my arm, neck twisted backward awkwardly. Once again, she bungled my mum and I up. I let it pass, used to that fact, always hoping that something discreet and should be left unspoken to a granddaughter would unknowingly disclose.

Our eyes chanced onto each others, her pale grey glimmering eyes refusing to let me go. Her eyes explored the rest of my face, coarse hands with deep lines and sagging skin would lightly play along my face, her eyes failing her, dependent on other senses to comprehend how I, or rather, Tracy, now looked.

‘The resemblance is so mirrored, it was as though you were cloned from him,’ here, she was referring to my grandfather. This too, was routine. She smiled, if that’s what makes her grandma happy, she’ll do almost anything.

‘Remember how he died?’ My expression froze, eyes unreadable. I felt my body go rigid, stiff. Apprehensively, I peeked at my grandma from the side of my eyes, bewildered at her apparent unfazed, innocent expression. I know how clearly everyone in the family refuses to touch that topic, to past that boundary and dam that will cause the salty hot tears to leak out involuntarily. Yet here, despite being carefully kept in the dark about grandpa’s death, was my grandma’s spontaneous dialogue. I grabbed the chance to understand, curious as to why I was not informed with the details of my grandpa’s death.

Without waiting for a delayed response, she dived into her thrilling tale of how she met my grandfather, his clichéd methods of getting her to accept his proposal, their simple marriage on a sunny day; and just as the climax of the conversation was about to be reached, she took an unexpected turn – to my sixth birthday.

17 December 1998. My granddaughter, Claire’s sixth birthday. My husband, Ben, and I have been decorating the house for about 3 hours now. We filled the place with brightly-coloured streamers that slightly reflected light beams, balloons of varied pastel colours, and got all the food ready; the birthday cake was chilled, candles in its respective position. Just one essential thing was missing. Too caught up with the preparations, we didn’t notice the sparse amount of coffee beans left in the grinder. Claire was a coffee addict. Since four, she couldn’t forget the think aroma that would fill the house each Sunday, as Ben roasted the beans. Claire was throwing a tantrum. She wailed that she didn’t care how many balloons there were, or how many guests were coming; she just wanted her daily dosage of coffee. Ben, upset and frazzled because Claire could not have what she wanted, especially on her birthday, made a trip to the nearby market. He limped there, despite rheumatism acting up. That was probably a sign, but no one took it. No one could think properly with an activated wailing machine. I was left behind to care for Claire and make sure that the final preparations are in order.

Tracy just reached home, and I realized we were low on snacks too. I tottered my way to the market. As I was about to cross the road, I saw Ben waving at me excitedly, coffee bean sack in the other hand, elated that he could fulfill Claire’s wish. He mouthed something but I couldn’t lip read well, so I signaled him to get over instead. Lost in his excitement and friskiness, he half-ran, half-dragged his feet across the road, sparkling eyes never leaving mine. Then everything occurred in slow motion. Everything suddenly became clearer; like watching a movie through a microscope, louder; like a movie out of a stereo. My smile faded – I turned my vision to my right the same time Ben did, but it was too late, too late. A deafening incessant honking replaced the once clairvoyant melody, the rhythm in my ears metamorphosised into an erratic heartbeat.

Ben was flung, a live rag doll, across the road through the air, the stunned expression never leaving his leathered face. The lorry screech to a fruitless halt, the stunned expression of the driver emulated his. Time seemed to tick slower – that’s self-denial for you – each minute action of his rigid limbs distinct. The coffee bean sack exploded on impact, small brown beads thrown into the air. Before the last bean fell, Ben already left for another dimension, still clutching on tightly to the rough, undulated and now, almost emptied brown sack. I stood, unable to react. Unable to accept the passing of time. Unable to breathe. Unable to accept death...

Grandma translated her story into words, but her emotions through her expressions. Like a chant, her words refused to stop ringing. Her words still not fully penetrated into my understanding yet. When it did though, my eyes became tumultuous clouds, raining relentlessly. I sat, lost in a world of my own. Hazed, murky, lost; unable to look for a way out. I had to move, had to feel something. I reached out for my coffee cup, picked it up effortlessly and drank the now salty liquid, the liquid that caused the death… of a loved one.