Turkish Coffee

It was the scent of the freshly ground coffee beans filling my nostrils in the Grand Bazaar that brought back so many memories of my childhood, or to be more precisely, of someone. Memories which I wished to forget, and also never forget at all. 

I remembered the time my grandmother and mother made Turkish coffee and they would tell the tales of our family while drinking it together. I was too young to drink coffee back then, as my grandmother would say. It wasn’t until I was in my late teens that my grandmother allowed me to drink with them, right after she taught me how to make it. After that, the coffee that I made was her favorite. She would especially call me over to her house so I can make it for her. 

Now that I’m sipping on a Turkish coffee at this café, all those memories rushed back into my mind. It was the times I would know about our family history, and because she was a very good storyteller, it was more enjoyable than the times my mother would read me fairytales. 

The more I let the scent in, the more I remembered her. The more I remember, the more I realized I forgot about her. How did her laugh sound like? How did her hands felt like when she was caressing my hair? The more I question it, the more I missed her. And missing someone that you would never see again, felt like a punch in my chest. 

Today marks the third year I didn’t get her call to wish me happy birthday. It’s been too long since I’ve heard her voice. And to think that there will be even more time that I’m without her than I was with her. I will grow old, I will have grandchildren of my own, I will be telling stories of our family to them as we drink Turkish coffee together. Just like how she taught me, I will teach them. And when the time comes, I will join her.