What Remains: Cynthia

The tree doesn’t know why I pour coffee at its base. Its branches lean over my mother’s grave. Coffee was her Sunday morning drink. After her Saturday evening wine.

“Don’t break my heart, boy.”

She would say as I headed to the streets. But we both knew that I would. Her heart got a new crack in it every time I breathed. She learned to care about me, but was ill-prepared to care for me. She’d drink the wine on Saturday night to calm the pain I caused while I was out doing things she’d heard about. But things I couldn’t tell her myself. Sunday morning, she’d say,

“Get cleaned up for church.”

As I rolled in. We both knew I wasn’t going. She sipped her coffee like it tasted of failure. Black and bitter, as if we didn’t have sugar or milk. A small punishment for herself. For things she couldn’t talk about. But things I’d heard about.

One day, she died. Just slumped over at the kitchen table. Coffee made, but untasted. I had finally done too much. Gone too far. Broke her heart. I was going to tell her myself, but she’d already heard. I was going to tell her that it was not her fault. That I am not her fault. Mama cared about me, loved me, but was ill-prepared to care for me. While I filled the cracks in my heart with trash and debris, she drank black and bitter coffee.

On Sundays, I visit Mama’s grave. I bring a cup of coffee with sugar and milk and pour it at the base of the tree that gives shade to Mama’s resting place. Hoping the roots will deliver it to her remains.

— Shared by Cynthia