I was holding a chick in one hand when I was given my first cup of coffee in the other. This was deep in the bush, where coffee was served thick black with a pot of warm water, to cut it to taste. I did not want to let the chick go, to free my hand. So I drank the cup straight, without adding water, without the sugar children were allowed. That chick was broken-legged and tame, it wouldn’t have run away. But I couldn’t risk losing the softness I had grasped. And now I never consider water, because I have two hands and got a taste, too, for the burning and strong.
Rose McLarney | Into Another Contents | Mudlark No. 51 (2013)