On a bleak late afternoon in winter I went into Starbucks and ordered a single shot. I ensconced myself in a tall-backed chair at the window and buried my face the cup to inhale the concentrated, heady, hearty, earthy aroma. Though the cup was too large, its shape funneled the supercharged scent, not of coffee, but of Italy, of my aunt's home there, time spent after mealtimes arguing politics, and the way cappuccino smells on an early summer morning the Marche region, those wonderful wakeups to the sound of the sea in my cousin's condo along the Adriatic, the yearning to return to that volcanic place. Suddenly I looked up and saw a man sitting in his SUV staring at my rapt expression (my eyes were closed), probably thinking, lunatic. I didn’t care; I had just been transported, for the price of an espresso. But there was something more—in that shot of earthen yield was the impetus to imagine, per chance to dream, not of death but of life. Ay, there's the rub, as paraphrased from Shakespeare's Hamlet.
For a way to put today's musing into action, check out the writing tip at the top of the list.
As always, let us know how it goes.