Zia Hassan

Coffee Tea And Me

+++ title = “01” date = 2019 +++

Some days, I’m coffee.

I wake up with purpose. My bed is made. I’m at the kitchen table reading the paper an hour before work. The kids have dressed themselves.

I enter the conference call with confidence. I speak my name as a trochee, emphasis on the first syllable. I’m not asking, I’m telling.

I bust through the to do list like I’m cranking a lever. By noon I’ve finished my most important tasks. I’ve set goals for the rest of the week.

I love like it’s the last day on earth. I grip my kid like I’m holding a bat at home plate.

I pour through grinds ferociously. I’m satisfied and, like I expected, I fit right into the shape of the cup. I might die tomorrow, or I might live for a hundred years.

But some days, I’m tea.

I get out of bed as if I’m immortal. Every day has little relative importance, but worth living nonetheless.

I make my day up on the spot. I write new songs and throw away old ones. I play solitaire, or Jenga. I walk in the park for an hour, maybe two.

I work on the initial stages of the project. I figure there’s always tomorrow. And if not, then there’s always later today.

I sing like a warm hug, I take in the smell of your shirt, the just-done laundry. I let you lie on my chest, fall asleep there even. You sigh at the lights like they’re the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

I seep through the molecules in the air and my thoughts start to expand. I don’t fit in the cup, the cup is just a construct. I am bigger than the bag, I am stronger than the cloves.

But today? Today I am soda. Today my mind keeps igniting with bursts of motion.

And then my thoughts glide invisibly into the air, slowly, carefully, one bubble at a time.