Coffee Crumbs

Oh, To See Her Name Written By Someone Else's Hand

Winner of ❝Coffee Shop Conundrum❞ contest

by emluminate

The city had changed with time, but I never did. Or maybe the city hadn't changed at all, but my city did. The city I knew for the short while I lived there.

I hadn't been back to Seattle since I left as a child. I hadn't been back to any place since I left it. Not Annapolis, not Juneau, not San Francisco, not Kyoto, not Honolulu, not Havana, not Boston. Seattle would be the first, and it certainly would not be the last.

Growing up, my family never stayed in a certain place for more than a few years. My parents enjoyed the spontaneous lifestyle, the thrill of traveling and exploring new places. Even after I graduated college and moved away to start my own life, they never stopped pursuing new places.

I never saw our lives the same way they did.

Every time I felt the eased tension of the adjustment to a new place, the suitcases were strewn about the living room floor when I returned from school that day. The red one for dad, the yellow one for mom, and the pink one for me. Every time I felt I had made an impact on my community, made a close friendship, my plane ticket was waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

I memorized the airport codes of most major cities around the world so that all I needed to do was sneak a glance at the ticket and I could know where we were going next. A mere acknowledgement of the change before I continue on with my day, counting down the hours until the inevitable early morning wake-up to leave.

It was like I was a ghost, drifting, haunting every city I glided through. Lingering long enough where people felt my presence but gone quickly enough that people surely questioned if I was ever there at all. It was not too hard to make friends, but it was that way for everyone else, too. It made for a lonely and frustrating childhood that my parents did not try or want to understand.

Seattle was the first city I left, so it's the first city to which I return.

Kindergarten, soccer games at the local park, the farmers market every Sunday morning after church, first grade, picking apples from the orchard, perusing the orchids at the local garden store, the swing-set in the backyard, my first cup of coffee.

Then, we were at the airport; code SEA. I had never been on an airplane before, and I felt the pit of fear grow within me as the plane sped along the runway. My mother squeezed my right hand, my father my left. They told me to imagine that I was just swinging on the swing-set in our backyard. When I lurched forward from the ascent, I laughed. It felt the same as the rush of momentum on the swing, just like they said it would.

The first thing I did when I walked through my gate and re-entered the airport for the first time in twenty years was open my Yelp app to find the best coffee shop in town. Not call an Uber to leave, not send a text to my fiancée so he was aware that I was alive and safe — though he knew by then that I was an expert traveler. No, I needed to find where I'd buy my coffee.

Over time, I discovered that while every city was vastly different from one another, they always had one thing to offer that was the same: coffee shops. The specialty beverages, the roasts, and prices differed, but I could always get the reassuring shake of an iced coffee cup and the satisfying swirl of the plastic or paper straw anywhere my parents took me.

My coffee journey began here, the Starbucks at Pike Place Market, its very first store. I was only the tender age of six. I thought it was fitting that my coffee habits began at the very first coffee shop of the largest coffee shop chain in the world, as if my own exposure to coffee would evolve in a similar way until it spanned oceans and mountains and city skylines. This time around, however, I vowed to try something different. My parents would be proud of me if they were watching from above, hopefully at peace in the final stop of a life of endless travels.