Dad’s coffee counter

Dad loved his coffee pot. It had some fancy filter, but for one reason or another, the spring would pop off the filter and he would take out his tools, jiggle stuff around and fix it. I didn’t really pay too much attention, but I would offer to buy him another pot, which of course, he would refuse and would say something like ‘Aye mijita, it’s still good, you just need to fix it every now and then’.

When dad was in the hospital, he drank his coffee, but would quietly say he couldn’t wait to get back to his coffee at home, probably because he could put as much cream and sugar as he wanted without the watchful eyes of the nurses. When we finally made it home, he went straight to the kitchen and made his coffee. I remember thinking, I should have paid more attention to how he made his coffee, but he made it clear he didn’t need any help and would be making his own coffee. At that point, he was still strong and walking around and could do things for himself. It was hard for us to reconcile the fact that he was dying, but as he would say “I’m not dead yet.” He tried to cut the tension with some humor, so as hard as it was for me to swallow that humor, I laughed out loud, but cried inside.

A few days later, we were in the kitchen together. He was making us coffee and I was sitting at the kitchen table. I was home on leave supposedly taking care of dad, but there he was in the kitchen, taking care of me. That fancy coffee pot filter popped off again. I fully expected him to just take out his tools and fix it, but he just stood there looking at the broken coffee pot. He finally picked it up and brought it to the table. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. I felt my face getting red and as he started to talk to me, I could tell he was trying to show me how to fix it, but I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear him. I told him I didn’t want to know and he looked at me said, “Mijita, I need you to learn how to fix the coffee pot now.” So, we sat there at the table and he showed me how to fix that damn spring. He made me do it twice before he gave the thumbs up. He walked me through how to make his coffee to his exact taste. We both held back tears. We didn’t acknowledge anything verbally in that moment, we just did what we had to do, he taught me, I learned and we had our coffee and talked about life. That was our father daughter dance, don’t ask me, don’t tell me, just show me. There were many things that we didn’t acknowledge verbally, but our actions of love, acceptance, and forgiveness spoke louder than words.

I remember the first time that dang coffee pot broke after he died. I stood there, in that same spot where dad stood every day and where I stood every day after that and I found the strength to fix that spring through tears and sobs. I was so proud of myself for fixing that coffee pot. I knew he was proud of me and I could feel his presence there with me.