The last cup

The winter sun is casting its last rays over the freshly snow-covered ground. He watches the rays until they fade, then turns back from the window as the aroma from the kitchen pulls him from his memories.

The old phone on the wall rings. He looks at it and smiles. Only a few people call that number, and he never misses the chance to talk with them if possible.

“Hello,” he answers, warmth in his voice. “I’m so glad you all came today,” he says, settling slowly into the well-worn rocking chair. “It was wonderful having everyone here. I’m tired after the busy day, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.” He rocks gently, the chair gliding over the deep, smooth grooves in the wood. After a few more minutes of conversation, he ended the call, grateful they had made it home safely.

With effort, he returns the handset to its cradle, but remains in his chair, rocking gently; anticipation keeps a smile on his lips. It grows wider as the phone rings again. He answers, sharing another grateful conversation. This time about the coming storm and a promise to help shovel the walk and driveway in the morning. The call ends, and he replaces the phone. The aroma of coffee fills the room as the pot finishes its cycle. The phone rings a third time.

“I think I’ll have some coffee and see if I’m awake when the ball drops,” he says, after the familiar exchange of gratitude for the day and the visit. “The end of the year is a good time to reflect, but always look forward. New blessings come.” He sighs. “I’ve seen ninety of them arrive. Not sure how many more I’ve got.” He ends the call as he always has, with an ‘I love you.’ The words, sometimes automatic, still warm his heart every time he says them or hears them from his children and grandchildren.

His weathered hands grip the chair's armrests, and he pushes himself to his feet. He holds steady for a moment, then takes smaller, slower steps toward his destination.

The old coffee pot on the counter has finished its last percolations. The light under the stove top illuminates the area. He pulls two cups from the cupboard and turns them so the words face him. “Don’t want to mix them up,” he says to himself, then laughs at his own amusement. He carefully adds cream and a dash of honey to each cup, and just as he is about to pour the dark black liquid, a noise stirs him from his task.

“Coffee this late?” the familiar voice asks.

“If I am going to try to welcome in the new year, I need a little help,” he says.

The young woman enters the kitchen and, smiling, wraps her arms around him. He pulls her tightly to him, as tightly as his strength will allow.

“I am going to get some sleep, Grandpa,” she says, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “I have the early shift at the hospital. I will check on you before I head off to work.”

He smiles as the young lady retreats from the kitchen. He hears the squeak of the stairs that lead to the second floor. The memories of little feet racing up and down those steps, the tears shed over missed steps that caused stumbles, bruises, and sometimes worse, create a sigh in the old man’s soul.

He pulls open the drawer and takes out a spoon. The scratches in the wood stop him, and he runs his fingers over each one. He can still hear his children chiding their mother and him to replace the cabinets and give the place a fresh look. Little did they know how often those blemishes and marks brought back memories, making them laugh. The joy of those memories had refreshed their souls so many times. He smiles at another memory brought to mind by a large scar on the dining room table. He shakes his head and returns to the cups. His hand trembles as he stirs the liquid, creating a mocha color in each cup. One is just a little darker than the other.

With one in each hand, he moves carefully through the kitchen into a large room with two chairs facing a window that looks out over the house's backyard and beyond. The view is obscured by the increasing snowfall. The wind is blowing the large oak tree he can just see in the far corner of the yard. Beyond that is darkness, but he knows a large barn sits off to the left of the tree. Beyond that are acres and acres of prairie, now covered with snow. Beyond that, the mountains burst from the flat land into majestic peaks that, even in the heat of summer, cling to their white caps.

He sets the two cups on the small table between the two chairs. Slowly, he eases himself into the chair on the left. He rocks back and forth, watching the storm blow just beyond the glass. A pop from an ember in the fireplace at the far end of the room draws his attention from the storm. The cherry-red glow of the dying embers does not slow the deepening of the room's darkness. Next to the fireplace, the outline of a saddle is barely visible. He knows the leather is worn smooth. The memories of the children pretending to ride a bucking bronco bring a smile to his face. They always thought it was a game, but he was teaching them to ride before they could walk. Each of his children, and now his grandchildren, have spent hours on that saddle. He can still hear his wife’s voice telling him to be careful and put something soft under it in case they fall. On the wall behind the saddle, he keeps pictures of the various awards they have won at the rodeos. His favorite pictures and memories are of the long, slow rides he has had with each of them over the years. They would leave from the barn and make their way slowly to the base of the mountains in the distance.

“Each one of them was different,” he says to his wife. “How could they be so different and all be our children?” he asks. “One would talk from the moment we left the barn until we returned days later. Another, I could count on my hands the number of words spoken each day on the trip.”

He looks over at the cups of coffee and the little wisps of steam drifting into the cooling air. The wind howls around the house, bringing familiar creaks and groans. He takes the cup marked "Dad" and sips the still-hot liquid.

“Each one of those trips would give me insight into our children’s hopes and dreams. At some point, usually at night, when the campfire was just a barely visible pile of embers, we would look up into the night sky and see the vast array of stars. They would start to talk. That was the good stuff. They would tell me what was on their hearts.”

His hand shook as he set his cup down on the table. He fiddled with its placement until it was pushed up against the other. The embers were almost gone, and he turned his attention to the storm outside the window.

“I guess we did okay, raising those kids,” he says. “Well, maybe the better way is to say that, in spite of us, our children are pretty good kids.” He adjusts the cup next to his so that the word “Mom” lines up neatly with his. “I am glad they came over today. It was nice to have the house full of life again, even if just for a moment.” He pauses, letting his words drift off into the silence that has returned to the house. He places his hand on the armrest of the chair across from the table, careful not to disturb the cups of coffee.

A strong gust of wind rattles the entire house as the storm reaches its climax. Outside the window, all that can be seen is a wall of white, as snowflakes fly vertically across the glass. He picks up his cup again and takes another sip.

“Life is good. That is what you always said to me. Life is good, not just in the happy times but in the hard times, when the storms raged and when raising the children meant nothing but chaos,” he says. “You know something, life is good, my love.”

The storm's last dying gasp pushes past the window. The wall of white turns to darkness. He watches and sips his coffee. From across the yard, it comes. Dimly at first, but then the moonlight streaks across the snow toward the oak tree and comes to rest on the small headstone, barely visible above the snow. Finishing his coffee, he smiles as the large grandfather clock across the room begins to announce midnight. The end of a year and the beginning of a new season.

“Life was good, my love,” he says, and closes his eyes. A smile of peace covers his face as the clock strikes the last chime of midnight.