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Birthday Coffee

By Rebecca Ann Scott

I roll out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. I notice the yellow post-it note on my mirror with the single word, “coffee” scribbled across it. It triggers my fogged morning brain that today’s date is May 5th, my mother’s birthday.

A smile crosses my face, which is rare for me in the morning. My mother and I’s tradition is the source of my smile. On our birthdays we stop our busy lives for an hour (sometimes two) and focus on each other. Just the two of us having coffee and talking. It sounds so simple, but it has helped our relationship immensely.

My mother suggested we start this tradition several years ago, after the birth of my son who is now twelve. We have coffee from one of our favorite coffee houses, and for the past six years it has always been Baker’s Coffee House. They have the best coffee and breads in town.

I hear the kids wake up and start getting ready. The morning chaos begins to unfold at our house. All five of us are getting ready for our day, be it school or work. When I say chaos, I truly mean chaos. I have twin girls who are fifteen. That usually generates at least one argument about clothing, shoes, or something that the other has used and not returned to the other.
My husband smiles at me as he brings me my cup of morning Joe. “Thank you.” I reply.

“Are you going to Baker’s today?” He asks, pointing to the note on the mirror.

I nod and smile, “Yes, it’s Mom’s birthday today.”

“I know.” He replies. He remembers everyone’s birthday, and our anniversary better than I do.

“I’ll drop the kids off today. “ He says and he pats my arm. “Tell your mom hi from all of us.”

“Thanks.” I say, “I appreciate your help.”

After I finish getting ready I head to Baker’s, a smile on my face. I am planning all the things to tell my mom. She is going to be surprised to hear the twins have their learner’s permits now. They are good girls, but the thought of either of them behind the wheel of a vehicle is frightening.

I see Baker’s, it’s a coffee house in an old cozy, comfy house. It’s warm and welcoming on the inside. Stain glass windows, typical in old homes, shine with bright colors as the morning sun hits the panes. I turn the crystal door knob and wait patiently in line.

When it is my turn I order two large (I order large because we have so much to talk about) mocha lattes and two pieces of almond poppy seed bread. I smile at Brenda Baker, the owner of Baker’s Coffee House. Brenda knows my mother and I well. She knows of our tradition and thinks it is wonderful. She also knows we choose her coffee house over the many others in town. Brenda smiles at me and asks, “Is one of these for your mother?”

“Yes.” I tell her, “It’s her birthday today and we’re having our coffee Al Fresca today.”

“You’re a good daughter.” She tells me and she pats my hand reassuringly.

“Do you want whipped cream on your mochas?” She asks.

“Why not.” I say I think about my mother protesting the whipped cream. For about four years now, at her doctor’s recommendation, she has ordered her coffee black after years of ordering her coffee with extra cream. I remember the first time she ordered her coffee black and the surprise on my face.

“What? “ She said, “You have to adapt to get by in this world. Don’t look so surprised.”

“It’s a special day.” I tell Brenda, trying to justify my order. “It’s a special day, so she’ll make an exception, but I know she’ll think I shouldn’t have.”

Brenda smiles and nods, she wants to stay out of it I can tell. She gives me the mochas in a carry container and the poppy seed bread wrapped in paper, placed in a brown bag with the Baker’s Coffee house sticker on the bag.

I am excited to talk to my mother. I continue going over the things I have to tell her. I don’t want to forget anything. I hardly realize I’ve arrived and I put the van in park. It’s a beautiful day for having coffee outside. The sun is shining brightly and it feels warm upon my face.

“Happy Birthday Mom!” I say. I can tell she is happy I’m here. I know she looks forward to these moments too. I set her coffee down and take a long slow drink of mine, the warm chocolately liquid warming my body. We have a moment of silence, enjoying each other’s presence.

Then the need to tell her everything overwhelms me and I explode into a myriad of things that I’ve been thinking about while driving here. I tell her about the twins driving, how hard it is to sit in the car with them while they drive. And I tell about Katie’s boyfriend. That is a new experience for Sam and I. We’re trying to be good parents, but it’s hard to know what is the right thing to do. It’s so strange having him come around. Beth doesn’t seem to care about boys at all.

I tell her about Luke, our son who is twelve, about how good he’s doing at soccer. How he’s trying harder in school. “He will still never be a Beth, but I think he won’t be as distracted as Katie.” I say.

Then I move onto the subject of Sam and I. I tell her we’re planning a trip to Alaska. Sam has always wanted to go to Alaska. We’re going to take the kids and stay in a cabin up there. I talk about my job and the recent stress with my boss leaving the company. Sam’s company is the same old thing. The owner is relentlessly chaotic and Sam rolls with the constant change. “Thank God he’s so easy going.” I say.

Then I tell her something I’ve wanted to tell her for a long time. “You were right mom.” I say. I know she is surprised to hear me say these words, although it is not the first time. “It is so important to have our meals at the table, and not in front of the TV.” This triggers my memory of when she adamantly told me our family would disconnect if we connect to the TV and not each other during mealtime. “It’s hard to do,” I say, “but it has helped our family.”

The time flies as I talk to hear and before I know it, two hours have passed and I must get back to work. I tell her, “Well, I’ve enjoyed our talk, but I need to get back to work.”

I take out her untouched piece of almond poppy seed bread, unwrap it and set it in front of the headstone. I look down the row of stones and see flowers left behind by loved ones and I take the lid off the untouched coffee and pour it slowly upon the ground in front of my mother’s headstone. The whipped cream froth sticks to the blades of grass as the rest of the liquid seeps into the earth.

I contemplated bringing my mother flowers on her birthday, but I know she appreciates the coffee and bread. I smile and I say, “You were right about something else mom. You do have to adapt to get by in this world. “