For 29 years, I made coffee every single morning.
By my count, I brewed more than 10,500 pots of coffee. Here’s the thing though – I don’t drink coffee and never have.
I made the coffee for my wife.
I first made her coffee in the early days to surprise her and make her smile.
Then later on, I made it because I was always up earlier and she was always running late – often running out the door with her coffee in hand on her way to the office.
And long after she had stopped working, I made it every morning because that’s just what I did. I made her coffee.
Some mornings I made it with pleasure. On rare occasions, I made it even if I woke up angry. Many of those days, it was simply part of my automatic routine.
I was thinking about coffee today.
I love how it smells even though I don’t like how it tastes. I like the smell of expresso, hazelnut and chicory. I like the sound a can of fresh Cafe DuMonde coffee makes when you first break the seal.
But what I remember most fondly is the memory of my wife taking her fist morning sips, her sparkly blue eyes soaking me in and her big smile captivating me as she said, “This coffee is wonderful. Thank you so much baby.”
I kept making her coffee day after day and she appreciated it every single one of those 10,500 plus days.
It’s one of those moments that made my life great and carries me forward even today.
I don’t miss making coffee.
I miss making coffee for her.