Finding Home

She woke up feeling sore and exhausted. She needed a fix if she wanted to keep going.

Trouble was, the place looked a mess. She hoisted herself up from the makeshift bed. How was she to find her gear?

There. That box smelled promising . She tore it open. Inhaled the aroma. She filled the kettle, ground enough beans for a strong coffee. The smell filled the room. The smell of home. She took a sip. Yes, she could do this. She’d unpack, get this mess under control.

Next time she moved, though, she’d label her most important box ‘coffee paraphernalia’.


17 thoughts on “Finding Home

  1. Every Italian would agree, no place can be called “home” if it doesn’t have a coffee machine and good strong coffee to keep you up and running! 🙂

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  2. I personally have never been a coffee drinker, but my husband alwasy has his morning cup (or pot) and my parents did too when I was growing up, so the aroma of coffee reminds me of home. Nicely written.

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    1. Thank you 🙂
      I think my love for coffee goes back to childhood memories, as well. First thing my mother did in the morning was to make coffee, so it’s a smell I’ve always associated with home. Now, of course, it’s the first thing I do…

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