I stand and I stir my coffee.
Three ice cubes, ten ounces, medium roast, just the right amount of creamer. I stand and I think, as I often do, about the composition of not only my coffee but of my life.
I stare at my reflection across the kitchen counter, fragmented in the window pane overlooking my backyard, and I wonder. I wonder how many people in the world are currently stirring their coffee just as I am. It is 11:51 p.m., far later than most people have their daily cups of caffeine, but I stir quietly nonetheless.
I wonder if there’s perhaps someone somewhere else in the world lamenting the imminent turn to autumn or the warm musings of spring as they stir a cup of coffee. Maybe someone else out there is thinking about the exact same thing as me while poised over a similar representation of routine and monotony.
I wonder if anyone else has looked as I have before. If the composition of my features has ever grazed another’s face, or if I am, as I am supposed to believe, wholly and entirely unique. Perhaps when I was molded, my nose was hooked in a certain way so as to resemble that of someone, maybe the brown rings in my eyes are recycled from that of someone far greater than I am, and maybe the curl of my lips replays memories of all those who have smiled before me for millions of reasons far beyond comprehension.
I stir and I stare into the gradient blend of coffee and creamer, and my features morph into obscurity as I know I one day will. I wonder what attributes and labels I will be simplified into: a daughter, a sister, perhaps someone kind and loving and generous and selfless, but it is foolish to waste the present thinking about what life would be like if I were gone.
I think if I were to have a recipe, a simple guide on how to make an Addie, I wouldn’t know how to encapsulate myself or boil it down to primary ingredients. Some of this stemming from a lack of self-knowledge and some from a constant conscientious awareness of how I am perceived—a wondering if the way I laughed a bit too loud at that joke bothered someone or if the label that tends to stick out of my shirt has given someone the wrong impression of me.
I believe one ingredient would be kindness. As a child, at least, it was the very first word I would use to describe myself, a certainty above all else of who I was: a kind person. With age, this certainty grew smaller and smaller, however, as kind musings turned into snide whispers behind closed doors, I have become forced to measure my own moral misgivings and what it may mean to be kind.
I’ve heard that self-doubts are to be expected with this whole growing-up ordeal. I suppose that when I look back at this time in my life, I will likely view it as “simpler,” as all of the adults dub it. I will look upon my anxieties and giggle at the naivety in which they were spoken. But for now, I turn molehills into mountains and hyperbolize the blemishes of my foundation.
Late night deliberations over the future will persist, but maybe when I stand and stir my coffee, I will be greeted with the shining sun through a different window, in a different house, in a life that is not yet my own.
