Catey Leonardson
I’ve been dehydrated for years. It’s terrible, I know, but it’s one of those behaviors that’s always stuck with me. My days are filled with chugs of cold press and rare sips of water. Will I ever change?
This poem was going to be about coffee.
“Hope is steamed milk” my brain started to say
As I ached to pour lattes and shoot the shit with the regulars
“Hi sweetie!” Large mocha with three extra shots, no whip, marshmallows and chocolate chips on top, in her own mug. Large cup of ice water, extra ice. She knows the trivia. I remember her phone number. More chocolate chips, please? More ice?
“Hello friend!” Large mint mocha with only a hint of chocolate, an extra shot, no whip, in his own enormous mug. He’s tall enough to see me over the top of the espresso hoppers.
Cup of coffee, black. Rinse out the coffee urn and repeat. Are they making their own black coffee now?
This one’s the silent type, so I took to prompting with “Large americano?” and that usually works for us.
His daily cup of coffee is paired with a quick visit to the cup of espresso beans on the counter that houses the pens. He punctures the lid of his cup with one, allowing it to breathe. Why are the holes that exist on lids already so uselessly infinitesimal? Why is our system so flawed?
My coworker and I paired this guy’s black coffee with a list of twenty DJ’s scrawled on the back of receipt paper, a collaboration created upon request. I hope it’s serving him well now in this time of solitude.
I miss these interactions, this sense of community. Routine. Routine?
It started slowly, with hand washing and anxiety, budding into unpredictability and no one allowed to stay inside our doors. Have you heard about social distancing?
No, I can’t take your mug, I’m sorry. Have you heard of germs? Did you know they don’t discriminate?
…
I started taking this seriously on Friday the 13th.
Today is April 11th, almost a month later. It’s been a month. How many more will pass by?
I put my coffee in the microwave to freshen up. I should probably drink some water if I’m going to be having more coffee, so I pour a glass while I wait.
My friends and I used to pass around a bottle of water and take ten-second swigs at concerts. It’s important to stay hydrated. When will I see live music again?
I start hydrating, counting how many times I gulp. I get to eleven and stop.
I hate drinking water. But you need it to survive.
Twelve… thirteen… I get all the way to twenty-five.
This feels like it has meaning. I’ll be twenty-six in a week.
I love little things like that.
Hope is a tall glass of water.
I’m nourished with every sip and each day closer to our reunion.
Catey Leonardson is a student, barista, and writer. They live in Eau Claire with their five-year-old son and are spending this period of self-isolation creating blanket forts, eating chicken nuggets, and completing their last semester as an English major at UWEC. You can find more of their work in Volume One, 5ive for Women, and the Sky Island Journal.