Cup Half-Full

“Two cups of coffee to go, please.” Robin ordered, flopping onto the barstool.

Taking no notice to the black tar plopped onto the counter in front her, my mom’s focus was intent on a square-inch of fake granite, her eyes twitching left to a scruffy-jawed man, absentmindedly scanning the menu.

Turning to Robin, my mom uttered under her breath “That’s him. That’s the guy.”

Without further thought to the situation’s outcome, besides capturing the criminal before the two detectives outside were alerted and by their side to help (or hinder), she headed for the door. With a quick trip, and a sloppier unclenching of Styrofoam, coffee splashed violently onto the man’s brown, Eddie Bauer jacket, knocking him to the floor.

“Grab him, Robin!” She yelled, regaining her footing.

Robin, unaware of the plan my mom had concocted in her head, launched forward to help, whipping the handcuffs out from behind her back, and slapping them onto the felon’s wrists. Dragging the apprehended up from the brown, sludge-filled puddle, the boisterous, young women sauntered past the male detectives, gaunt with coffee stains and ruffled blues.

I think back to my mother, as I knew her: strong, loud, and undeniably unafraid to tackle any issue (or man in this case). The thought of my mother’s coffee-stained, shit-eating grin, as she waltzed out of the diner to fill the backseat of the patrol car with peril and chests with honor, is exactly as I like to remember her.

Robin retold this story at my mother’s service, and mirroring the way my mother looked upon recollection, the audience sat perched, eyes gleaming, with laughter leaping from everyone’s lips, as we relived one her proudest moments.

Coffee had always played a major role in her life.