THE
RITUAL

I could hear it coming from a few feet away. My dad’s deep inhale before giving the most crucial performance of his life…

It’s time to get up, get up

It is the morning, morning

Whaaaat!

Get up, get up

Let’s start that morning, morning.

I wish I could bring back that beatbox instead of the alarm that has been going off for about five minutes now. At least then, I knew that getting up was worth it. Because at the end of the song, my body knew that I would get to see Gran-Mary. Dad and I would get to watch as she made Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes with her batter made from scratch. And her bacon and eggs, which, though I have seen being made hundreds of times, cannot be replicated. It meant getting to drink coffee with her and Dad and listening to them talk about their weeks.

But now alarms just mean getting up and doing ‘adult’ things. I could snooze the damn thing, but then that would just begin a whole cycle that I don’t need to get into today. Especially with it being 7:30. That means I have four hours till work. So I only really have three hours and thirty minutes to get ready.

Hour one: debate life choices.

Hour two: make coffee

Hour three: actually make myself look presentable.

Hitting snooze for just an hour wouldn’t hurt…

… Or maybe it could, considering now my feet are hitting the ice-kissed hardwood floor, and a frost of hatred coats every vein in my body. Is it really worth it, getting up every damn day and going to a mediocre job? It’s fulfilling, I guess. Getting to help people feel comfortable in their skin and changing their look with just a pair of glasses. But each day I go, I am reminded that common sense is really not that common. Especially when dealing with insurance. The number of spicy conversations that I have to endure because people don’t understand that I don’t control their insurance benefits is obscure.

And as if my life wasn’t already hell incarnate, the rest of this damn planet seems to be on fire. I am sure that Satan himself has been taking a vacation to give the human race a taste of our future.

The morning news is proof enough of what Satan has been up to. At this point, I am also convinced that if Satan is walking this earth, he has possessed the president himself with all the nonsensical bullshit the orange man has been spouting. Every day, there is a new policy that tests the limits of how low our bar can be to become a ‘leader.’

Eventually, the voices turn to background noise as I make my way to the cabinet. I grab a metal kettle for my water. I need to fill it about three-fourths of the way up in order for everything to be perfect. On the fired-up stove, it gets to a temperature that even the steam could leave burns if it comes in contact with skin. A mistake I made not too long ago was when I was trying to grab a carafe from the cabinet.

Now, that glass carafe already sits on my counter. It gets more use than any other appliance in this damn house. So, I don’t know why it was being kept hidden in the first place. It’s beautiful.

 I grab the tissue-thin paper cone and fold the edges, giving it the ability to take the shape of the well-crafted cone it was destined to be. It’s placed in the vase. Slightly hovering in the V-shaped mold of glass, preparing for its inhabitant.

Coffee beans are for sure the savior of this universe, grown and then dried to encapsulate their flavor. It could stop here. But I like them to be ground for a faster intake.

Three scoops are all I need. Just three. Nothing more, nothing less.

The grounds go into the cone, weighing its final step.

The water—it’s boiling in the kettle. Just what I needed. I pick it up by the handle, seeing the flames that made it this warm.

I pour. In a slow, clockwise motion, I dampen the coffee grounds. A few drops of gold hit the base of the carafe. The grounds lift slightly, then settle back in. The paper filer now molded perfectly to the flared top. I pour again. Just a little faster this time till the drops become rapid.

 I let the grounds tell me what they need.

Finally, when all of the juice from the ground-up beans is collected, I lift the cone of soiled ground and throw it away, getting rid of my means to an end. My mug is ready—a chalice to the perfect liquid.

The coffee I had when I was younger wasn’t close to this, but it is stained in my memory. The mug back then had Disney Princesses on it and sparkles, not a random ‘A’ on it to remind my roommate it was mine. The liquid inside was milk and sugar with a splash of coffee, and not the plain black tar that gets the job done. But it reminds me of then.

I take a few more sips and thank God for this morning’s ritual.

It’s warm.

I have missed the warmth.