The first time I ever tasted coffee was at my grandfather's house. We went to visit and the next day I woke up early and he was already up, standing alone in the kitchen. He set a big mug in front of me, poured boiling, frothy milk into it from a battered metal pot, added lots of sugar. Then, a touch of coffee, the black liquid barely staining the white. I still drink it the same way.
My grandfather died yesterday. I didn't know him very well, but it fills me with joy to know he watches over me first thing every morning.
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