A CUP OF COFFEE
Jamie Nguyen, ‘04
At the sound of the pandesal vendor, I woke up. Light streamed intot he living room from the dining room lights. The sun was just barely emerging from the clouds, yet already it was hot and humid. The electric fan sent a small cool breeze back and forth across the room. “Pan-desal! Pan-desal!” yelled the street vendor as he pushed his little cart down the empty street.
I looked at my watch; it was five in the morning. And thus began my fight against time. I had twelve-hour jetlag, and my sense of time was completely wrong. It was early morning, and my biological clock told me it was early evening. I rose from my cot and put on a pair of sandals. They were still black with soot from the night before. A fire had forced us out of our bedroom and into the sala. I followed the aroma of coffee into the kitchen, where my aunt was already starting breakfast.
“Here,” she said, “go buy some bread.”
I took the ten pesos from her hand and walked outside, unlocked the gate, and went up to the vendor. Task number one: language barriers.
“Sampo,” I said, which means ten. It’s the highest I can count up to in Tagalog, and it definitely means ten.
The vendor looked at me with an odd face. Perhaps it was because no one lived in our house for the six months my grandmother was away in America. Or perhaps it was because I clearly stood out as an American, taller than average teenage Filipino girls, wearing a sleeveless shirt, Merion mesh shorts, and hair braided in pigtails. Nonetheless, he stared at me blankly. So I said “Ten, please.” Blank stare.
I was pretty sure at this point that the “international language of love” was not going to fulfill this task of hurdling a language barrier. I held up ten fingers, then offered the ten-peso bill.
Finally, he opened his large basket of pandesal, put ten pieces of freshly baked bread into a bag, handed it to me, and took the money.
I closed the gate and shuffled back into the house, where my grandmother was ready to get up and eat. I turned on the light and helped her into the wheelchair. Pushing her gently into the dining room, I remembered a book I had read when I was little.There was a girl named Beatrice and a man named Bartholomew. As Beatrice grew up, Bartholomew always took care of her. In the end, when Bartholomew grew old, Beatrice took care of him. She pushed him in his wheel chair wherever he had to go. I felt as though I was Beatrice, and my dear grandmother was Bartholomew.
I pushed my grandmother to the head of the table, where my aunt had a nice warm cup of coffee waiting for her. I sat down at the other end of the table and started eating. But for some reason my grandmother wasn’t eating. I looked up as she asked, “What is this!”
Her memory was quickly fading, and all I could do was go with the flow, and ignore whatever I felt inside.
“Oh, it’s coffee, Lola!”
“What! Coffee! No. I don’t like that. Coffee should be saved for special occasions only!” My grandmother grew up during a worldwide depression, and she raised a handful of children during World War II. When she said that coffee should be saved for special occasions, she most certainly meant it.
“But Lola, every day with you is a special occasion!” I immediately exclaimed. I smiled, and drank some coffee myself.
She waved my comment away with her hand as she smiled, happily enjoying the thought of someone’s interpreting her presence as so special that the occasion called for coffee. Slowly she picked up her bright yellow mug and started drinking her coffee.
I believe that was the last time I held a valid conversation with my grandmother and really made her smile. Sure, I told her I loved her practically all the time, but my memory of making her smile while she could still “clue in” means so much more than the exchange of those three words. I made her smile and she drank coffee, because it was a special occasion.
People can say how much they love each other, but words are only worth so much. It’s that perfect picture of happiness that one can dig out of an old memory. It’s that moment in which everything seems perfect and life just couldn’t become any better. It’s that something you remember forever. It’s that smile that comes across a face and brightens the day, in the exact same fashion and beauty that the sun emerges from the clouds and spreads its golden rays across the morning sky. And yet, it’s something that doesn’t need to be expressed in an over-dramatic performance. In fact, it’s a love that can be expressed over something as little as a cup of coffee.
At the sound of the pandesal vendor, I woke up. Light streamed intot he living room from the dining room lights. The sun was just barely emerging from the clouds, yet already it was hot and humid. The electric fan sent a small cool breeze back and forth across the room. “Pan-desal! Pan-desal!” yelled the street vendor as he pushed his little cart down the empty street.
I looked at my watch; it was five in the morning. And thus began my fight against time. I had twelve-hour jetlag, and my sense of time was completely wrong. It was early morning, and my biological clock told me it was early evening. I rose from my cot and put on a pair of sandals. They were still black with soot from the night before. A fire had forced us out of our bedroom and into the sala. I followed the aroma of coffee into the kitchen, where my aunt was already starting breakfast.
“Here,” she said, “go buy some bread.”
I took the ten pesos from her hand and walked outside, unlocked the gate, and went up to the vendor. Task number one: language barriers.
“Sampo,” I said, which means ten. It’s the highest I can count up to in Tagalog, and it definitely means ten.
The vendor looked at me with an odd face. Perhaps it was because no one lived in our house for the six months my grandmother was away in America. Or perhaps it was because I clearly stood out as an American, taller than average teenage Filipino girls, wearing a sleeveless shirt, Merion mesh shorts, and hair braided in pigtails. Nonetheless, he stared at me blankly. So I said “Ten, please.” Blank stare.
I was pretty sure at this point that the “international language of love” was not going to fulfill this task of hurdling a language barrier. I held up ten fingers, then offered the ten-peso bill.
Finally, he opened his large basket of pandesal, put ten pieces of freshly baked bread into a bag, handed it to me, and took the money.
I closed the gate and shuffled back into the house, where my grandmother was ready to get up and eat. I turned on the light and helped her into the wheelchair. Pushing her gently into the dining room, I remembered a book I had read when I was little.There was a girl named Beatrice and a man named Bartholomew. As Beatrice grew up, Bartholomew always took care of her. In the end, when Bartholomew grew old, Beatrice took care of him. She pushed him in his wheel chair wherever he had to go. I felt as though I was Beatrice, and my dear grandmother was Bartholomew.
I pushed my grandmother to the head of the table, where my aunt had a nice warm cup of coffee waiting for her. I sat down at the other end of the table and started eating. But for some reason my grandmother wasn’t eating. I looked up as she asked, “What is this!”
Her memory was quickly fading, and all I could do was go with the flow, and ignore whatever I felt inside.
“Oh, it’s coffee, Lola!”
“What! Coffee! No. I don’t like that. Coffee should be saved for special occasions only!” My grandmother grew up during a worldwide depression, and she raised a handful of children during World War II. When she said that coffee should be saved for special occasions, she most certainly meant it.
“But Lola, every day with you is a special occasion!” I immediately exclaimed. I smiled, and drank some coffee myself.
She waved my comment away with her hand as she smiled, happily enjoying the thought of someone’s interpreting her presence as so special that the occasion called for coffee. Slowly she picked up her bright yellow mug and started drinking her coffee.
I believe that was the last time I held a valid conversation with my grandmother and really made her smile. Sure, I told her I loved her practically all the time, but my memory of making her smile while she could still “clue in” means so much more than the exchange of those three words. I made her smile and she drank coffee, because it was a special occasion.
People can say how much they love each other, but words are only worth so much. It’s that perfect picture of happiness that one can dig out of an old memory. It’s that moment in which everything seems perfect and life just couldn’t become any better. It’s that something you remember forever. It’s that smile that comes across a face and brightens the day, in the exact same fashion and beauty that the sun emerges from the clouds and spreads its golden rays across the morning sky. And yet, it’s something that doesn’t need to be expressed in an over-dramatic performance. In fact, it’s a love that can be expressed over something as little as a cup of coffee.
