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Fifty-three years he’s been drinking his coffee black. Learned to take it that way in the Army. As a boy on the farm he’d always had cream. During the war, cream was a fantasy—it seemed as improbable as peace. Fifty-three years of black coffee brewed up in a percolator bought at Sears in 1972. At least thirty-five years of two eggs scrambled, three links of sausage, and two slices of toast for breakfast. Twenty-one years of being alone.
Then his grand-daughter came to visit for the weekend. Smart girl, college student. Writing something for one of her classes, and wanted to ask about his life in the war. She asked questions, he answered, mostly honest except when it was too horrible, and in the morning she made him breakfast. An omelet with scallions and provolone cheese. Wheat toast. A dollop of Coffee-Mate Hazelnut creamer in his coffee.
He didn’t say anything about it. After she was gone, the wheat bread remained on the counter; the provolone and Coffee-Mate still in the old Frigidaire. Fifty-three years, drinking black coffee. Long enough. Nothing wrong with a little change now and then.
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