Two teaspoons of granulated sugar

My grandmother never allowed me to drink coffee.

Let me correct myself; my grandmother never allowed me to drink coffee because I was a child.

Every morning I watched her reach into the cabinet that hung above the kitchen counters, fill a mug from the fresh pot of coffee, scoop in two teaspoons of white granulated sugar and pour in half and half until the contents reached the brim of the cup.

Every morning, I begged her for just one cup.

I had my first cup of coffee as a seven-year-old, my grandmother prepared it for me. I watched her reach into the cabinet that hung above the kitchen counters, grab two mugs, fill her cup just as she did every morning, and fill my cup with whole milk.

As I got older, she would hold the pot over my mug, after pouring into hers, and would let the small droplets roll off the spout into my cup. Each year my cup became less milk and more coffee. Until eventually, she would grab two mugs fill her cup just as she did every morning and then hand me the pot to prepare my very own cup of coffee.

I used to believe that preparing another person’s cup of coffee is a true act of love. Although I will never turn down my grandmother’s pour, I have found more love and comfort in the passing of the pot.

As a seven-year-old, I found peace in those early mornings with my “cup of coffee” and my grandmother. As a seventeen-year-old, I found love in the way she retrieved my creamer from the fridge.

My doctor told me that I had an addiction to coffee, that I could not go a day without it and while it does relieve the early morning brain fog, I know that it is not the caffeine I crave.

It is the youthfulness I used to have. It is the acceptance I finally received from my grandmother. It is the comfort I feel from the very first sip, to the grinds at the bottom of the pot.

My grandmother never allowed me to drink coffee. One might say it was because I was a child and putting caffeine into a five-year-old’s body was not ideal for anyone. I counterargue and say, it had nothing to do with how my body would have suffered. Rather, it had everything to do with what that same cup of coffee would bring me all these years later.

My grandmother knew I would not appreciate the intricacies of sharing in a cup of coffee.

I now realize why my cup was only ever filled with milk. It was not the caffeine she was keeping me from. It was my lack of appreciation for the one subtly of every single morning, that brought her, and now brings me, more comfort than a seven-year-old girl could ever understand.