Empty Cup of Coffee

There is something about a fresh cup of coffee. I can recall being in the crib, hearing my father stirring a cup with a spoon (He always stirred it to the tune of ‘Shave and a Haircut’), and then hearing the spoon falling onto the counter. I would climb out (no idea how) and surprise him in the kitchen. He would smile and make me a cup with a lot of milk and sugar. Then I would follow him to his bedroom and sit between him and my mom as we drank our morning cups.

Now I’m probably as old as he was at the time and I find myself with this empty cup in front of me.

On the cup is a picture of my son, now 23 years old, as an infant. My wife and I had gone to the Staten Island Mall and I surprised her with this mug.

My life seemed much more in control back then. I was in my second marriage, we just had my third son and there was a sense of excitement about the future. I had a steady income and was able to purchase a home.

This morning as I stirred my coffee, a little bit of milk and sugar; I once again, became nostalgic. I know my past wasn’t always so exciting and hopeful. I had two son’s from my first marriage and I could never spend enough time with them. I was unhappy in my job and I possessed the arrogance of youth in thinking I could do more, could do better.