How Baristas Make Me Feel When They Make That Kind of Cup


Dear Barista Maker of this glorious cup,

What shall I compare you to? A sunrise, perhaps? A cluster of lilacs on a cool summer’s eve? Is there such a metaphor? Tell me, my magical fairy…how exactly do I define your beauty, for I assure you there is none quite like you?

How do I say thanks, when a ‘thanks’ is not enough? No, my kind earthling, how could one word be like a gene’s lamp? ‘Thanks’ is insufficient for what you’ve made. What you’ve crafted and formed with two skilled hands is beyond words, and so my gratitude can not properly be given, yet ‘thanks’ is all I have.

You are there, morning, noon and roughly till eleven at night. You are my medicine man. How patient, how long suffering, how gifted! Do you know of your greatness? You are the guardian of the golden elixir that pumps through me in good times and bad.

How do I express my thanks? My Love? My very appropriate, non-stalker-like adoration?  Oh, how I curse the limitations of this language!

Do you remember that time when I thought Math would be a great idea during the summer? I remember the trudge, the lugging of books up the mighty steps that led me to your store.  I remember your friendly face. I remember the way you considered my options when I expressed my plight! Do you really like me?  Does the world know of your wisdom?  I haven’t been the same since you’ve entered my life. No, indeed, I am not the same. You have made me something else, something new, and for that, there are no words. So perhaps I’ll settle on the only word this insipid language can offer me:

Thank you.