Every morning, I open the kitchen cupboard to a shelf-ful of coffee mugs, all satiny smooth to finger’s caress, with every color they can possibly possess, which is to say pure white. A white of untainted innocence; a clean slate ready to write. On three, stories have already begun, of granddaughter Coco growing her young life. I pick one to kickstart the day, then push a button that sends a steaming stream a-swoosh through a Keurig cup into the Coco cup. My heart warms with every savory sip and smiles…at Coco smiling back.
In truth, it’s a quartet of Coco cups I covet. The three on kitchen hooks are headshots. The fourth sits on my office desk, connecting me throughout the day. That one carries a head-to-toe photo of one-year-old Coco, clad in yellow, sitting and grinning, on the floor next to a door. In those days, I occasionally BARTed to Berkeley just to cuddle her in my arms or roll her in a stroller round the neighborhood. Only occasionally, I say, as I lament not going more often to deepen the connection before she and her parents (my daughter and son-in-law) returned to the East Coast state of her father’s origin. My visits since even more occasional.
In the youngest of the three hook-hangers, Coco is four or five years old and wearing a blue denim jacket over a blue striped shirt. Waves of long brown locks part in the middle then flow down her shoulders. She smiles sweetly while a sign next to her proclaims me one of the “World’s Best Grandparents”. By this time in her life a budding birder, during a family outing to Yosemite she firmly yet compassionately corrected my classification of a passing bird, pronouncing: “Oh, Grandpa Mike, that’s not a blue jay; that’s a Steller’s jay!”
Meanwhile, back in that kitchen cabinet, the years roll on. From the other two cupboard cups, 13- and 14-year-old Coco continues to connect with a warm, confident smile, exuding the poise and sophistication of the worldly young woman she’s become during her family’s four-year sojourn in farther-off Paris. In both mug shots, Coco’s hair, still long, brown, and middle-parted, drapes down her shoulders with a silky sheen. At 13, she sports a knit turtleneck; by 14, a black, low-cut dress. And, oy, in both already with lipstick!
Now 15, Coco’s planning her Sweet Sixteen in Paris, before her family returns to the States. And I will continue my occasional visits, happily more often than was possible in Paris.
Nice story, Mike, and nice mementos.