Delight

is in my future

Ross Gay, who literally wrote the book on delights, asked our class to attempt three delights (“an essay is an attempt,” he said): a past delight, a present delight, and a future delight. Here is my attempt at a future delight:

Your coffee is so freaking good.

From grind to drip to pour to sip, smell, temperature, thickness (Yes, your coffee has the right thickness; that’s a thing), and I know your coffee is in my future. My future contains coffee of the correct thickness, right oil, proper grind, perfect light reflecting on the water brewed through bean and filter and filling my cup, my soul, my morning, my day.

I know I bought the beans, but it is you who will turn these brown burnt seeds into the beverage of my present dreams.

My future is fingers around a mug with your book recommendation open in front of me,

sipping,

and reading. Maybe our hands touching as you sip and you read a news magazine, and we lift silent prayers that, as long as our mugs have heat, the kid will go deep into her imagination and not need anything.

Well,

maybe she’ll come over for a quick hug because she still needs those from us, wants them, craves them like your coffee for my delight.

In wordy wordiness,

Walter