Just a cup of coffee

It was just a cup of coffee.

And it wasn’t.

It was more.

I met her an hour earlier

as I pulled into the drive,

rang the doorbell at the wrong apartment,

found the right apartment,

and yelled her name to her husband

who had poked his head out of the upstairs window.

She was covered from head to toe

as I expected for a woman from Syria.

She smiled. A lot.

I tried to make conversation. She handed me her phone.

As I drove, I asked the phone, “How many children do you have?”

She answered. I told her about my children.

We arrived at the appointment. And waited.

Her sister called by video and there, in the waiting room,

I waved to a woman living in Libya.

After the appointment, we drove back to her house.

I approached the driveway, clogged with cars now.

“Cafe? Cafe? Cafe?” she asked.

“Yes!” I said. As soon as I parked the car.

She hurried inside. The other cars moved. Her husband guided me as I parked.

They invited me in. He told me his name. I told him mine.

I sat on the couch, waiting. We smiled. Said a few things in simple English.

When she came down to invite me upstairs, I did not recognize her.

Gone was the covering she had worn outside the house.

She was like any other woman I might meet.

Upstairs, I sat in the kitchen as the coffee simmered on the stove.

“Sugar?” she asked.

“A little,” I said.

She served us coffee, me and her, in flowery tea cups with saucers.

It tasted sweet, like milk and sugar.

“Babies?” the husband asked me.

“Two,” I replied, telling their ages.

They told me their kids’ ages.

He told me his wife is a hairdresser.

She gestured at her eyebrows, showing me what else she does.

I am constantly surprised by my new friends.

We talked about family. The sister in Libya. Two more still in Syria.

A shadow crossed her face. I did not have to ask. I could not ask.

Her husband said they had gone to Turkey. Then New York. Then here.

Here, in this home, for only two months.

I showed them a picture of my children.

I told them my brother lived in Chicago. I showed them on a map.

Our conversation was simple. I wanted to stay.

I had to leave.

On my way out, they pointed to the bedroom, where one of their boys slept.

I saw him, the little boy in the bed.

And his face reminded me of the other boys I’ve seen.

The boy on the boat. The boy on the beach. The boys in bombed-out buildings.

This boy, he sleeps in a bed in an apartment in an ordinary city.

Will he remember what his life could have been?

What will his life be now?

It was just a cup of coffee.

I drink a lot of coffee.

Somehow, I think, I won’t forget this one.