Coffee

The coffee rises, then falls back down; a patient game of timing.

I watch, standing still, as the foam climbs the narrow neck of the cezve, knowing that a second too long will ruin it. 

In the distance, my grandmothers’ voices echo in my ears. 

Quiet laughter and conversations about memories fill the room. If I listen closely, I can hear that same rhythm inside my chest.

This is the delicate moment I want to preserve, the fragile pause before the liquid overflows. A suspended time, neither before nor after, neither young nor grown. I wish it could last longer, that I could control it, that this in-between moment did not pass so quickly. I wish the coffee would wait for me instead of the other way around, to wait for me to decide whether I want to change or whether I want to stay the same.

But before I can cherish this liminal spot any longer, the time is up and I no longer have time to choose.
The coffee rises to the rim of the cezve. It’s ready to be served.