How many times have I stared at it — the core of its dark, reflective soul — and seen my own thoughts. With the ring of light at the center, it’s an inverted eye, revealing me: teeth clenched, lips closed, eyes clear, but brows furrowed.
Someone once asked me, “What’s wrong? Are you confused?” Their question confused me. I was merely thinking, contemplating. Hard. That’s life — it’s not fair.
The coffee knows it. How many people has it sat before, looking up at their worn faces. The deep, horizontal lines in their foreheads, like the shadows of half-opened Venetian blinds. Dark and light collating. The answers flitting in the interstices.
Or the crows feet, each talon marking some once-young burst of laughter at a dirty joke or the Mona Lisa smile of a mother at her daughter, seeing her future. What about the bright eyes — two pairs— glancing at each other on their first meeting, careful not to gaze too long?
How many times has that dark matter been there, when a man lies awake wrapped in a sleeping bag on the living room floor, wondering when things changed (even though he always knew they would). Or when the woman leaves the house just before midnight for a night shift— one of three part-time jobs to provide for her children.
Or on the long road trips to see a long-distance lover, a first love, puppy love. Those evergreens guiding the way; no matter how shrouded in the clouds clinging to the forest floor, their peaks rise above the haze.
The children look up at their parents, begging for a sip. The parents warn, “It’ll stunt your growth.”
The children persist. “But you drink it. It’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair.”
The parents look at their children. You’ll understand when you’re older.
