When "I'll drink it black" meant I love you

I remember the day you said you loved me, in fact I remember many, however there was one in which you said it looking beyond my two eyes, and into the part of me that made was wholly Michael, far beyond your nephew.

I was fresh off the trail of a story I'd been buzzing, about a roastery in some warehouse, with some company I wasn't even convinced I knew the name of; about coffee, roasted coffee, that I had seen drop into the drum, from a hopper loaded with my two hands, that I had seen turn circles, above fire and heat with my two eyes, and I had made the call after first crack with my own sense, to let full air through the roasting drum, and soon switched on the cooling bin, before lifting the bar and door to let each bean spill into its ocean of deep brown and smoke.

And after lunch, was a moment I lost sleep for; when I'd brew that religious pot of pre-dishes, mid-desert Sunday coffee. I made every women in the kitchen furious, pulling open cabinets, plugging in the grinder; making what would seem like a routine, sober task, comparable to a British monarch's coronation.

I prepared five or eight cups, and even french-pressed one for my dad, being over-meticulous with the press and pour, like I was threading coffee through mug needles; and set them out on the table; intentionally serving without cream or sugar, hoping my first tasters would take my word for it and search the darkness, the untainted truth, to find something beyond usual weekday morning or sunday afternoon; however, as expected, cream and sugar were soon placed at tables center.

Askance, I quickly righted and tossed glances to each table head, obscurely noting if anyone had caught the chagrin in my demeanor. Nothing, hands nor lips moved in fluid, as my brain processed reaction, like a referee interrogating instant replay for foot placement on a sideline catch. Then, my eyes caught note of my Uncle Ron, forming the words, "I'll drink it black."

I was inwardly beaming, while outwardly annoying; taking each of his sips with my eyes, to the dregs of his cup with my overbearing questions; but truly, happy.

In retrospect, it wasn't fantastic coffee. It was non-organic, marked 'humanic,' over-roasted, and perhaps, good; but for whatever reason, in my naivete, I had taken a piece of what made me Michael and brewed it that afternoon, poured it into a black-rimmed, white glass cup, and set it out on the Sunday dinner table, exposing my sincerest self and wants; to which he, in his supportive benevolence, saw into my imperfections and shadows, and said, "I'll drink it black."