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 Each day feels new, and my memory of the one before is faint. I’m learning to adapt. |
| It strikes without warning. Yesterday, my faithful coffee pot burbled with promise. Today, it has other plans—it does nothing, nothing but betrayal. In the back of the pantry it sits: a jar of instant coffee. No expiration date in sight. But the dust tells a story. A sad story. I unscrew the lid and stare at the freeze-dried crystals. They look less like coffee and more like aquarium gravel. Still, desperate times demand desperate measures. The Denial I try to convince myself it can’t be that bad. People drink this stuff on camping trips, in hotel rooms, even in office breakrooms where dreams go to die. Surely, I can survive one cup. Then Bargaining I reach for the spice rack. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? Cocoa powder? If I add enough extras, maybe I won’t notice the taste. Maybe it’ll pass as Starbucks. Just another pipe dream. Finally Acceptance The first sip hits like a plot twist I should’ve seen coming. Thin. Bitter. A flavor that whispers, “I was almost coffee once.” I swallow anyway, survival. A bad cup of coffee still beats no coffee at all. And instant coffee, for all its faults, is loyal. It may be dusty. It may be sad. But it showed up when the coffee pot failed. Freeze-dried disappointment? Absolutely. But also resilience in a jar. And on mornings when betrayal is an empty pot, I’ll take what I can get. Because sometimes, survival tastes like instant coffee. |
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