“Raindrops and Coffee” illustrates the relationships between strong, resilient women that surround us. The poem focuses on the importance of supporting one another and cherishing the moments and memories we share.
Maybe it’s
because my memory’s been slipping or
because I’ve only heard your voice on a recorded message for a while now but
I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how you looked
outside the mirror
the photographs
that filled the scrapbooks we made during the day you got off from school
are still filed in the cabinet
beneath the bookcase
in the den
even without creaking down the stairs to
flip through the now-faded pages I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you sneaking sips from the chipped green mug you made me for my birthday but
scrunching your face at the bitter taste though it was
a creamy light brown with milk and sugar
your smile with
the two front teeth slightly crooked beamed happiness
bouncing in your seat at the wooden dining table in
your favorite sneakers
navy worn into gray and a big toe threatening to poke out
proof of a hard-won race from
the edge of the schoolyard to
your classroom
your leggings torn at the knee
were another clue
the shadows
that danced along your cheek from a growing number of flickering dripping candles on your cake
looked to have gotten darker
and deeper each year like
layers of unhealed bruises
even without squinting my eyes to
see beyond the camera’s flash I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you brewing another pot of strong black coffee in the machine we bought at the flea market but
wincing as you poured a cup and dribbled some onto your fingers even though it was
the second time your shaking hands did it this morning
might be easier if you kept your heavy eyelids open
even though the overhead lights that dimmed until they disappeared with a fizz
may be to blame
and the reflection
in the murky puddle on edge of the cement path
that shattered and splashed from scrambling tires to
your stockings as you waited for the light to change
lasted only a moment but
even without running my finger over the scars
from pinching myself with the needle I can remember
the pittering-pattering against the windows and
you throwing open the door in tears and
crashing into your seat even though the stuffing of the cushion was already climbing out
shaking the table with a pile of books under the shortest leg
that chipped off after we balanced on it to change the lightbulbs
I didn’t say a word but
handed you a cup of coffee
with a little sugar
you needed something sweet
you took the cup
downed it and
fell asleep at the table
the thread fought against slipping into the eye but
I stitched your stocking up
and the wait
by the bus stop
covered in a black umbrella
purchased after you read that
black is metropolitan in a magazine
hair straightened just that morning but
already curling up at the edges
when the bus pulled up by the curb
you stepped inside
shaking out your umbrella
handing the driver
crisp birthday money
removed from its neat folding in your wallet
you found a seat by the front
and waved to me but
by the time I waved back
the bus was no more than a cloud of smoke and
the rain stopped me
from running after you
and I can see the picture
of your face staring out the foggy glass window
of the café
so clearly in my mind
content to sip your black coffee
beside strangers and
go home to silence
fingerprint-covered tortoiseshell glasses pushed up
on your nose
a closed umbrella rested on the
chair beside you
dripping onto the
black and white tiles
nervous but feeling safe
behind a mirage
and the hope
that shone from your face to a reflection off a tall building
drew a halo around your head
that only I could see
chic mug in hand
swirling around your drink
in a practiced manner
studied the women sitting next to you in the café
teetering on bright red pumps
and slipping on the wet pavement
feet aching but smile in place
in your precious city it’s just
have a seat
tell me about yourself
goodbye
you trudge out
shoulders slumped
tears hidden behind tortoiseshell glasses
you wrestle your umbrella open
the black one you brought with you on the bus
now torn but
bills to be paid and
there’s not enough to buy a new one
then the wind blows and
flips it inside out
you drop onto the sidewalk and cry
I hope you can feel my hand
patting your shoulder
and pulling you up
for a hug
maybe one day
I will see you again and
perhaps you’ll happen to be standing before me in line
I’ll order coffee sweetened with milk and sugar while
you get yours black or
maybe you’ll decide to catch a bus ride home and
surprise me with a visit
I might not recognize you at first
haven’t seen you outside the mirror for a while
but I hope that we’ll learn to remember each other
over raindrops and coffee.