Coffee with Mort

Ed gently shook the little paper bag near his ear and gave an affirming nod to the rattle within.

That sounds like just enough.

As he began unfolding the top, he admired the plain label. They may not be considered premium coffee beans, but they were his favorite from the local grocer. Not every morning allowed time for making fresh ground coffee, so Ed cherished the ones that did. He tipped over the bag and poured out most of the little dark and oily roasted treasures into the grinder that was waiting on the clean but worn kitchen counter. His eyes blinked hard to clear away the sleep and with a quick motion, he popped on the cover and pressed the button that unleashed a rattling ruckus that was always a little surprising at first. The noise gradually settled into a harmony between the hum of the motor and the hiss of spinning blades and disintegrating beans.

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand,” he counted in a low whisper as his gaze settled out of the kitchen window and onto the street below. The morning sun was just beginning to paint beautiful pink and orange patterns on the horizon, giving a warm glow to the the sidewalks and storefronts outside. Yellow flowers planted around the street tree opposite Eds’ building danced ever so slightly, hinting at a pleasant morning breeze. A bird sang. Another answered from nearby. The coffee grinder whirred.

“Five-one thousand, six-one thousand.” To Eds’ right, the kettle on the stove began to whistle.

“Perfect.” The corners of his lips raised into a slight smile. It was already shaping up to be a nice day. He dumped the freshly ground coffee into his press and after letting the hot water cool for a moment, he poured and watched the grounds grow even darker as the steamy water pooled and slightly covered them. With eyes closed and eyebrows stretched to the ceiling, Ed dragged in the rich heavy aroma through his nostrils, past his lungs and deep into his soul. He began to count again as the coffee bloomed.

“One-one thousand, two-one thousand...” Suddenly, Ed froze and tilted his head, listening intently.

What was that sound?

After a short moment of silence, a muffled raspy cough drifted from the darkened bedroom doorway just off the living room, near the little kitchen where he stood. His face tightened into a concerned grimace.

That didn’t sound so good.

Crap…. the count. “Ummm…ten-one thousand, eleven-one thousand…” He glanced at the clock hanging above the sink and turned to the window once again as he continued the count.

Right on time! A single blue car drove slowly past the shops across the street and the driver masterfully flung a freshly folded copy of the local newspaper squarely onto the barbers’ stoop with a loud “flap”. Its echoes resonated down the row of brick buildings in a way that could only be heard in the early hours before people and cars invaded these peaceful moments. At the count of “thirty-one thousand,” the rest of the hot water was poured into the press and once again the little kitchen filled with the rich earthy aroma of caffeinated life as the grounds swirled like a school of anxious fish. Ed turned the dial on the little white kitchen timer to 4 minutes, and as it began its panicked ticking, he popped on his comfortable brown shoes, unlocked the apartment door, and thumped down the stairwell to retrieve his own morning paper waiting below.

Except it wasn’t there.

With his hands pressed firmly on either side of the doorway, Ed leaned out and surveyed the sidewalk. He swung his piercing eyes back and forth several times, as if the paper was cleverly camouflaged and would suddenly appear if he looked just once more.

Weird. The paper always comes. It’s as dependable as the rising sun.

He put one foot forward, leaned out just a little more and gave the whole scene another sweeping glance.

Nothing.

As Ed spun around and put his foot on the bottom step, he threw a jealous glance over his left shoulder at the paper lying on the barbers stoop and for the briefest of moments considered a life of crime.

No, maybe he’ll just buy one later.

Seventeen sad shuffling disappointed steps later, he was in his apartment again, but the smell of fresh coffee and a single “ding” from the timer reminded him that this day just might be saved yet. Back in the kitchen, Ed gave the handle on the press a firm slow downward push. The floating grounds were smushed into the bottom, leaving the beautiful dark nectar swirling above. He grabbed his favorite mug from the counter, flipped it over and prepared to pour.

A light knock at the door jolted him and caused a mad waving about of both press and mug, making him look like an amateur carnival juggler, unsure of how to start his act. Thankfully, no precious drops were spilled. The clock read 6:02am.

Who in the world? Oh- maybe the paper guy has returned to right his wrong!

Ed set the press and mug back on the counter and with three long strides into the living room, he was sliding the chain and turning the bolt on the front door.

“Good morning!” he chimed happily as he swung the door open but froze when he realized that it was not the newspaper delivery guy. Not even close. Standing there, with feet squarely planted on Eds welcome mat, was Death.

Despite the absolute shock of finding himself standing face to face with the Grim Reaper, Ed thought the specter was not at all like that which he would have expected. The visitor did not exude menace or foreboding. There was no panic, no fear. The air did not stink of sulfur, rotten flesh nor dry dusty emptiness. No frigid breeze wafted in, and no eerie fog was to be seen.

“Good morning, Ed.” No harsh whisper; just an ordinary pleasant voice.

As out of place as a dark robed and scythe wielding skeletal figure in the hallway may seem; Death seemed strangely familiar to Ed. It was as if an old friend had just shown up at his door after a long absence. Death stood with a posture that expressed confidence, authority and dignity. Ed felt as if he were being visited by the President or Prime Minister - maybe even royalty. Suddenly he regretted not tidying up a little better. Its neatly pressed robe was black, of course, but not worn and tattered like it seems to be typically depicted. Tucked within the hood was a clean white human skull that was surprisingly not at all disturbing to look at.

Death tilted its head slightly forward as it asked, “May I come in?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Ed stepped to the side and gestured a sweeping welcome with his hand. Death stepped across the threshold and into the room with a surprisingly normal gait. No floating, shuffling or limping. Huh. Ed thought that was honestly a little disappointing as he closed the door.

“Shoes?”

“I beg your pardon?” replied Ed, a little puzzled.

Death bent slightly to look downward toward its feet and Ed slowly followed its gaze. Its unremarkable black dress shoes had the sort of worn but polished look that you might see sported by a salesman at the local furniture store.

“Oh! Yes, of course- my apologies!” he exclaimed with sudden realization. “You can leave them on.”

“Thank you.” Death seemed to be a very considerate paranormal entity.

They stood awkwardly for a moment while death glanced around the room, seeming to admire the decor. Ed clicked on the lamp even though the morning sun was already brightening the room. He was not used to visitors, especially not visitors of this caliber. Also, he’d never actually seen a scythe up close before. How very interesting!

“So…” Ed began nervously “You are here……for?”

As if on cue, another muffled spasm of coughing erupted from the bedroom.

They both turned their gaze towards the darkened doorway and Death quickly tipped its head twice towards the source of the noise.

“I’m here for the sleeper. The sleeper will not wake again.” Another awkward silence.

“Oh. I… I see.” Ed pursed his lips and looked at the floor with heavy contemplation while Death kept its dark, empty eyes fixed on the bedroom doorway. Slowly, Death pivoted its body to take a step in that direction.

“Would you...”

Death stopped and turned to look back at Ed.

“Well, I just made a fresh pot of coffee, and I was wondering...” Ed raised his eyes.

“Would you care for a cup?”

“Ed…” Death turned to face him squarely, raising and extending the menacing scythe.

“Ed, I have walked this Earth since before the first breath was drawn and I have escorted more souls from this plane than numbers can count.”

“I am Smert. King Samhain of Terrors. Azrael. HaMal’ach HaMavet.”

“I have been called Thanatos and Charon. Mors and Mara. Angeu. Ankou. Cu Sith. Smierc.”

The room seemed to grow darker and the air thickened with every word.

“I am Giltine. I am Yama. San La Muerte. Thongalel. Shinigami. Memitim.”

“I have carried away each and every mortal as they individually surrendered their tomorrows.”

“All who live and all who shall ever live will know me intimately.”

Ed swallowed hard.

“I am the Grim Reaper; harvester of souls,” it explained as it calmly leaned its scythe into the corner by the bedroom door.

“…and I would love a cup of coffee.”

Ed opened the small kitchen cupboard with a familiar creak and selected a mug for his guest. For a moment he considered that although his mug was the better of the two, his guest should have the newer, prettier one. It wasn’t as rounded and comfortable to hold as his, but Death's hands were just bones, so maybe it didn’t matter. Yes, definitely the white mug with the yellow flowers. He turned to find his guest had already settled into the chair facing him, sitting patiently waiting with hands resting on the table. The coffee steamed as it was poured into each cup and somehow released even more rich aromas.

“Smells wonderful.”

“Thanks, it’s my favorite brand. Cream? Sugar?”

Ed carefully handed his guest the mug.

“No, but thank you.” Death courteously replied.

Ed slowly slid into the chair opposite his guest as he blew across the rim of his mug. The symbolism of the dissipating wisps of vapor wasn’t lost on him and he almost grinned at irony. So, they sat, host and guest at Eds’ little kitchen table, pleasantly sipping their coffee while enjoying the morning sun and the sounds of birdsong from outside the little window.

After a few moments and feeling the need to break the awkward silence, Ed spoke, “You know, it’s funny, I feel like I know you.”

“Oh yes, we’ve crossed paths many times, you and I, Ed. Many times.”

Almost in unison they took another drink from their mugs.

“People tend to forget me.” said Death with an almost dismissive tone. Then leaning in slightly and tilting its head, it slowly nodded to convey somberness as it added, “People tend to want to forget me.”

Another moment of quiet contemplation and sipping.

“Can I ask you…”, Ed began.

Death looked up at Ed, intensely interested in his query.

“Why…”

“Why do….”

Death took another sip and set its mug down on the table as it listened to Ed sputter.

“That is to say… why do we even have to...”

“Ed.”, interrupted Death as it lifted the flowered mug into the air between them.

“Ed, this coffee is good. It’s very good. It has rich complex flavors and aroma. A cup of coffee like this though, is not best experienced as a whole. Each and every sip should be savored and appreciated individually.”

Death took another sip and set the mug back down.

“Mmmm… Every drink from this cup is slightly different and unique. As the coffee cools and continues to blossom, the flavor shifts and plays a different melody on the tongue each time. It starts off hot and bold, then gradually becomes cooler and more complex. It’s a journey, Ed. It’s a journey from top to bottom. And if the initiative is taken to appreciate it, every good cup of coffee is a wonderful gallery of tasteful experiences.”

Eds’ eyes drifted downward to stare into his own mug as he considered Deaths words. Minuscule droplets of oil danced and glistened on the top of the black pool. They tipped their mugs back again Death continued.

“However, Ed, the fact that the experience of this cup of coffee eventually ends is what makes it truly precious. The knowledge that the last sip is imminent gives value to each preceding one. If there were no final sip to balance the first, the entire experience would be mundane and meaningless. …toilsome and cheap. Eventually it would become flavorless. That’s the nature of a really good cup of coffee - the last sip at the bottom is the golden foundation that the entire cup is built upon.”

Death punctuated his words with a final slurp.

“This cup may be empty, but coffee continues on. There were many more cups of coffee before this one and there will be many more cups of coffee to come.”

“…but this cup is done and complete.”, said Death, tapping the rim of the mug.

“…and it was very good. Very, very good.”

Ed realized that he was now staring down through the table into nothingness and with the back of his hand, quickly dispatched the tears that were trying to escape his eyes. He looked up to meet Deaths’ empty gaze.

“I wish the cup had been bigger,” he whispered.

“I know, Ed.” Death paused and took the next few moments to just be there with Ed as they lowered their eyes to ponder their respective mugs. Death looked at Ed once more and gently slid the little white cup with the yellow flowers to the middle of the table with skeletal hands.

“Here’s the thing, though, Ed. The size of the cup isn’t determined by how much coffee we want. The cup is the cup—flawed, shaped by imperfect hands and battered by the world…”

“…and it held what it held.”

He looked deeper into Ed’s sad eyes and added, “That doesn’t make it the cup we would have chosen…”

“…but it was the perfect cup for the cup that it was.”

Ed matched Death’s gaze for a moment, then nodded slowly and he looked again at his own mug. He raised it off the table, inspected its brown and tan design then tipped it back, draining it of it’s final bit of coffee. He paused for a moment while a look of resolve settled upon his face then he set his empty cup in the middle of the table next to its flowery companion.

A soft choking noise erupted from the bedroom. It drifted delicately through the apartment like a butterfly in a spring meadow.

“Well…time to get back to it. Thank you again for the coffee, Ed. It was delightful.”

The clock read 6:02am and Death pushed itself away from the table, stood, and courteously slid the chair back into its place. With each step out of the kitchen and across the living room, Ed took a small shuffling step of his own while he tried desperately again to find the right words for his guest.

“D-do I…”

Death stopped just outside the bedroom door and turned quizzically as it reached for its scythe.

“That is…should I…”

“Yes, Ed?”

“Should I go… in with you?”

Death looked away from Ed for a moment, peering deeply into the bedroom. In the distance, faint bells called out. A train horn answered.

Death returned its gaze to Eds’ imploring expression.

“It’s ok.”