My friend Joe

Waking to the sound of the insistent alarm clock buzzer, the aroma of freshly brewing coffee arouses my senses. Morning has arrived. I slowly reach over and turn the alarm to snooze, but the smell permeating the house keeps me from falling back to sleep. I drowsily swing my legs from beneath the warm covers and feel the crisp morning air on my bare skin. The sun has begun to break the horizon, and the whispers of daylight glow from the window. I reach over to turn the alarm clock off and wander downstairs to meet my faithful friend, Joe.

Coffee. Java. A cup of Joe. The aroma is distinct and familiar. As long as I can remember, my daily ritual has begun with hot, steaming Joe. As a young child, my mother would add hot coffee to my milk bottles to warm them. Later, I would learn to carefully pour the hot liquid into my own cup, measuring sugar from a teaspoon and splashing milk into the cup until it reached the perfect shade of creamy golden brown. With filled cup in hand, newspaper spread across my lap, I greet the morning from the porch as the sun rises. My dependable friend, a bottomless cup of intoxicating Joe, is nearby for the remainder of the day.

As technology has advanced, my enjoyment of coffee-making has grown. A burly percolator was the appliance of convenience when I began my friendship with muddy Joe. Now gracing my kitchen counter is a sleek Mr. Coffee automatic drip machine, with an auto-start feature that brews before I wake. On occasion, I pull out a brawny espresso machine and make a concentrated version of my robust friend, using exotic coffee beans I have freshly ground in an electric grinder. An electric can opener, making the opening of a can of commercial coffee a true act of pleasure, has replaced my macho hand-crank opener. I listen for the familiar pop as the blade cuts into the steel rim of the can, releasing the hiss of the pressure seal. My nostrils flare with the anticipation of the aroma of Joe. As the scent engulfs me, I feel euphoric and I am reassured by the knowledge that my friend is in the house. Life with Joe has become more comfortable and carefree, as the years have passed.

As the sun sets in the west each day, my desire for Joe wanes. Our relationship is a daytime affair that rarely breaks into the dusky light. I prepare for the next day by carefully decanting water into the sultry coffee maker, placing a fresh paper filter into the drip basket. I enjoy one last moment with my friend as I carefully scoop the dark brown flecks from the can into the filter. One last embrace by the strong scent of finely ground coffee accompanies me to bed as I drift off to sleep, waiting for the moment when the aroma of freshly brewed Joe wakens me as I hit the snooze button on the insistent alarm clock. The cycle begins again and I realize that Joe is more than just my friend. Joe is my first love.