TO SIP A COFFEE

It was 4:45 AM, and I was sitting on our terrace while inhaling the nicotine-filled pod that I bought for my father. As I watched the vapor disperse with the shivery early morning wind, the roosters began to break the long silence. A few minutes later, the kettle that comfortably lay on the gas stove had awakened, singing with the hymn of Mayas just beneath the talisay tree in front of our yard.

I inhaled my pod one last time and fetched the whistling kettle. The warmth of the hot water comforted me as I was pouring it on my mug which already had coffee granules in it. I returned to the terrace and searched for the exact sitting position when I left, longing for the coziness I had enjoyed earlier. When I found it, I stirred the coffee at a slow and steady pace, making sure to smell it first before taking a sip, just like what my papa would do, and I think this is the correct way of sipping a coffee.

As google would say, there are more than thousands of taste buds in a human’s tongue, 2000 to 8000 to be exact. Still, it’s not enough to fully appreciate a coffee, or else it would all be an explosion of bitterness. As a kid, I couldn’t fathom how he could enjoy such a drink if its aroma was herbaceous, earthy, and bold. And yes, my father prefers the sugarless one, just a piece of Nescafé stick and warm water and he’s good to go. But now, I understand his preference. Alike with how I stirred my coffee, my mind caught up on how a person could indulge in such a drink – just slow, and steady, filtering its empty bitterness.

***

My father and I weren’t that close. In fact, I always see him at distance. I couldn’t recapture a memory in which he talked to me for even a minute, except seeing him sipping his coffee early in the morning and late in the evening. During my childhood, in all honesty, I despised him.

I saw my father as a destroyer of worlds, a harbinger of destruction - he always ran down my imaginary world of cars, robots, and buildings. He wreaked havoc upon my toys, often stomping and kicking them without giving any look of regret, anger, or even an ounce of violent intent. Just simply blank and bland, like a veteran soldier who doesn’t care about anything except his mission.

His cold and unconcerned attitude continued up to high school. I never asked for his permission nor tried to get his attention. At this stage, he has become a disruptor of peace, as he only talks to me when there’s an errand. For example, holding his beloved flashlight. Needless to say, I got reprimanded several times, but I became good at it. I always knew where to spot; I just had to follow his eyes and steady the flashlight’s beam. And, of course, he would always ask to do these things when I was busy with something. He seemed like a captain who navigate the seas with a storming cloud of tyranny, as he would make commands and expect his crew to execute them without buts, and any other reason would just be an excuse.

In senior high school, my papa wasn’t cold anymore. As a matter of fact, I felt he wasn’t even present during this time. Maybe it had to do with my busy SHS schedule since I participated in lots of extra-curricular activities and started exploring life outside my parent’s box. If I were to describe my papa at this point, he appeared like a generous stranger who fed us every day and gave us everything we needed – a diligent general who would arm and aid his soldiers for war, boosting their moral every day except there’s no real existential threat in this case.

Then the COVID pandemic came, and we were all stuck in our squared house, yet we still failed to communicate. I wasn’t bothered by it, though, since I’m used to papa – a busy soldier. Aside from combatting the leaking engine of his pickup truck, he had a lot of stuff to do during the pandemic, such as welding his sidecar, improving our house, and tinkering with his four motorcycles. And I could say those were a lot of missions for a general who had unequipped soldiers.

I, on the other hand, was busy constructing my world too, a world that my papa couldn’t destroy, where toys are made out of blocks of words on a white canvas. I have realized that staying in my room with my electric kettle is the best isolation I could have ever asked for. I could cook noodles and boiled eggs and even prepare myself a hot milk. This promises my mind and soul the peace I wanted while I built my indestructible domain on my laptop.

In my college, specifically 3rd year, when we started our face-to-face classes, papa miraculously spoke to me. It was midnight after I opened the gate for him. His smell stank with a strong pungent scent, a familiar aroma whenever he arrived this late. The dogs were barking relentlessly as my father was struggling to push his motorcycle inside the garage.

He sat down on the terrace briefly, and when I was about to return to my room, I heard a familiar voice which sounded unfamiliar at the same time.

“Jay?”

“Pang?”

He drew his hand out and gave me the key to one of his motorcycles.

“Do you want me to buy or fetch something?”

“No.”

“What else do you need?”

“It’s yours now.”

I was stunned, since papa and mama were very strict about driving. They always refer to me as “Pakloy”, which simply means a lazy bum.

“Thanks, pa”

“I am very lucky to have you, son… Finally, I could live a little comfortably as you will have your degree soon. I might not have finished my education, but I am blessed to have you.”

“Thanks pang…”

I didn’t look him in the eye and returned to my room. I made sure to lock the door first and hid under my pillow. My eyes were forming nimbostratus clouds, and ready to shower down my bed sheets. I felt a knife removed from my stomach that had been stuck for many years, and I had to deal with all the pain at once. I grabbed my blanket, wrapped it all over me, and remained in the fetal position with my head hidden under the pillow until I have found peace.

***

I’m in my fourth year now, and this is one of the rare times I wake up early. Later, is my thesis’ final defense, but I chose to build a world instead. And this time, my papa is included. When I was young, indeed, coffee was bitter since I didn’t understand its value and purpose. But now, as an adult healing from his childhood trauma, black coffee has become an essential part of my life. Its aroma, bold and strong, taught me how to endure. Its flavor notes, bitter and earthy, has turned me into the man I am now.

I have learned that the key to correctly sip a coffee isn’t only about tasting it with our thousands of taste buds, but by feeling its aroma, flavor notes and warmth. To sip a coffee is a conversation to oneself, where experience and feelings clash in an attempt to find peace.

Now that papa his own, I have to fight for mine, too. It’s a long road, maybe a thousand pages, a hundred chapters, and some sections. But I have to, especially now that I make worlds not because papa couldn’t destroy them but because I know that papa is proud of me.

Finally, I could say to him

“I love you, pang.”