Rebecka’s First Cup

I squinted though the blinds which had already been pulled against the afternoon sunlight. Still, long thin slices of light cut across my face, making it harder to avoid Gramma and the conversation that was coming.
We were sitting at Friendly’s in downtown. The bright spring afternoon was starting to fade as the sun set behind the city, casting dramatic shadows across the intersection and onto the face of the pinkish, stone building across the street from our window.
My grandmother had brought me to this very spot many times throughout my childhood. She boasted always that we were going out for “coffee,” which, in truth, entailed a scoop of ice cream for me and coffee with a biscuit for her. Sometimes she would let me sip from her cup. The hot, bitter brew softened by her liberal addition of cream. The only adult in my life who drank coffee, my fond childhood memories of Grandma and coffee are mingled together.
On this day, Gramma ordered me my own cup of coffee. It may have been because I was older; I had just had my thirteenth birthday. It was probably more because of the topic for today’s conversation. My parents were divorcing, my dad moving out, and my fundamental Christian world was shaken. It was an adult conversation. I had earned an adult beverage.
I don’t remember much of what we talked about. But I remember drinking coffee, my first cup.

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