Every morning, the old house came alive with the smell of coffee. It was the kind of rich, earthy aroma that seemed to wrap around you like a warm hug, one that only Grandpa’s coffee could provide. The brown mug, chipped at the rim from years of use, sat on the table, its handle worn smooth by his fingers.

Grandpa had a ritual. First, he'd grind the beans—dark, strong beans. Then, he’d boil the water, watching it bubble as it reached the perfect temperature. The sound of the steam hissed through the kitchen like a whispered secret. No rush. Never a rush.

I would sit beside him, watching, waiting for my turn to sip from the cup that always seemed too hot. He’d look over at me, a twinkle in his eye, and say, “Patience, kid. Good things come slow.”

That cup of coffee—thick and bold—was more than just a morning ritual. It was his way of grounding me, of teaching me that the best things in life, like his stories, took time. It wasn’t just about the coffee, it was about the silence shared between sips, the steady rhythm of the world that never seemed to move faster than Grandpa’s steady hands.

Now, years later, I still brew the same coffee. Same beans, same grind. It’s not just the taste I miss, but the stillness that came with it. And in my own kitchen, I hear his voice again: “Patience, kid. Good things come slow.”

I take a sip, feeling the warmth, and for a moment, everything is right.