Dumping coffee beans into the grinder
they spill onto the counter and floor.
I brush them into the palm of my hand,
hesitate before squatting down to pick up
the three or four at my feet.

It is then I remember my German mother telling me
that in Hamburg after a bombing
she and her neighbors were searching
through the rubble when inside a box,
a bag of coffee beans was found.

Excited, a fire was built.
A kettle, dug out of the ruins,
filled with water, set atop the flames.

The precious beans within a folded cloth
my mother with a brick smashing over and over,
turning them to coarse powder.

The water hot, grounds added and stirred.
Round the fire they gathered calling out into the smoldering ruins
“Kaffee!” “Kaffee!”
Breathing deeply the aroma for so long just a memory.

Out of basements with soot covered faces
others came crawling as my mother strained the dark liquid,
poured it into a can wiped clean.
Lifting it to her lips, took a sip,
passed it on to another then round the circle,
the coffee’s taste and smell
stirring memories of tables set with linen,
porcelain, sugar, and cake—
for a moment forgetting
their life among the ruins.