By Bethany Bruno
My father drank black Maxwell House from a repurposed Big Gulp cup, the kind with a
faded NASCAR logo and a plastic straw he never used. Every morning, long before the
world stirred, he’d fill it to the brim and cradle it between his knees as he drove to work.
No cream. No sugar. Just heat, grit, and something close to devotion.
On weekends, he used the Grumpy mug I bought him when I was twelve. We were at
Disney World, sweating through July, and I picked it out with the kind of glee only a
child feels while gift shopping. The mug was heavy, white ceramic, with Grumpy’s
furrowed brow and crossed arms printed on the side. He drank from it for years, even
after the handle chipped.
He died in 2016. Since then, I have tried every method of coffee making—French press,
pour-over, chic glass carafes with wooden collars—but none of them feel right. The smell
of Maxwell House from a plastic tub still carries more weight than any hand-picked
Ethiopian blend ever could.
Each morning, I make coffee. I press the button and wait. I listen for the sputter, watch
the steam curl into the quiet. I pour a cup and drink it black.
It is not good coffee.
But grief has a way of anchoring itself in the ordinary. And love, when it lingers, finds its
voice in the bitterness. I drink, and he is there.
Still warm. Still rising.
