MARCH 10 — a cocktail of contrasts stirred with memory, achievement, and caffeine. It marks my father’s 31st death anniversary, my 2nd year as a columnist, and, most dramatically, my first taste of coffee after an eight-day hiatus. Life’s trilogy of bittersweet ironies. Coincidence? Or life’s twisted way of keeping me entertained?
Thirty-one years ago, I lost my father. Grief doesn’t vanish. It evolves, like coffee changing flavors over time. The scorching pain of loss has mellowed into a warm, slightly bitter remembrance.
My father was a man of strong convictions who loved coffee and books. I prepared his afternoon coffee — perhaps where my love affair with caffeine began. As for my opinionated nature? From him. His opinions might have been too strong to swallow if he had a column. And if he were here today, he’d be my harshest critic. An English major — a grammar nazi. (He’d have marked this up in red.)
Speaking of opinions, today also marks my second anniversary as a columnist — two years of writing and occasionally ruffling feathers. When I started, I feared (and my EIC knows this) running out of things to write about. I listed topics and even asked colleagues for ideas. Some were hits; others… let’s not talk about those.
Eventually, writing became second nature. Everything I see and hear is a potential column. And here I am, two years later, still writing, and you’re still reading, reacting, engaging. Thank you — to my readers and EIC for taking a chance on me.
Writing a column is like brewing coffee — too bland, and no one cares; too bold, and you risk giving readers heart palpitations. Striking the perfect balance is tricky: a blend of humor, insight, and an unexpected spice. What I’ve learned in two years? Words, like espresso shots, should be bold and leave an impression.
And then, today’s most dramatic milestone — my reunion with coffee. After eight agonizing days of abstinence (a self-imposed health move), I finally had my first sip. I savored each sip, and slowly, I felt different. Electrified. Completely alive. Would I do it again? Maybe. I love a bit of torture.
The hiatus reset my body’s reaction to caffeine. The immunity was gone. Me without coffee? It felt… off, like something had been switched off and was now back.
You might be wondering — what’s the point of these anniversaries? What am I talking about? Don’t worry, I always talk to myself. It’s called soliloquy. Let me be philosophical now (thanks, Fr. Montero). It’s about grief, growth, and guilty pleasures. Life is a blend of sorrow and joy, loss and gain, black coffee and sugar.
If my father were here, he’d likely shake his head, wondering, what is this girl into now? But I know he’d nod approvingly at my persistence as a columnist — and my never-ending love affair with coffee.
So, I raise my cup to those who never give up on the things (and drinks) that fuel us. Cheers to life’s complexities, to remembering, and to celebrating.
