Memories of the Morning

A friend of mine once asked me about my favorite food memory. She wrote the note on the inside of what she called a "coffee snuggler." I consider coffee itself a snuggler.

I remember the morning that the Laughing Goat coffeeshop opened, a flower on each table and sunlight pouring in, the memory of love sitting across the table.

I remember black coffee out of a sock in Lençois, Bahia, the memory of a tile floor and Elis Regina on the musicbox, and infatuation sitting across the thatch floormat.

I remember early-morning campfires in a subalpine hunting camp, black coffee from an old steel pot, with my dad standing across the fire, stomping our feet to fight the sub-freezing mountain air.

Memories are like dreams of the future, as the loose reality in their perfection. Aspirations for what life could be like. Hot coffee and love.