Where's my coffee?

Drabble of 100 words

...under napkins to collect sloshes, under a plate to keep it warm.

Coffee doesn't care.

It came from Ethiopia — they call it Aster — as in flowers or stars.

I too came from afar.

Born in a box to be labeled and sent off into space with nary a clue.

I celebrate those who harvest the beans, that tell them they are worthy to be roasted and ground — then consumed.

Harvesters may never see the world.

But they have a home under the same stars that watch me add milk and sugar, then walk to my table with nary a spill.