Today reminds me of my first time.
That day, the sky was gray, where strong breezes made my neighbor's tall bushes undulate like we were underwater.
From my seat at the dining table, I heard my Grandma click off the stove.
“¡Ven!” she called.
I got up to help her, adjusting my jacket to keep my warmth from escaping. Today was the perfect day for a nice hot drink.
In the kitchen, a collection of mugs sat on the counter like baby birds, mouths open and waiting.
My Grandma pointed with her chin. “Take them and call the others, mija.” She was bundled up in clashing colors with a navy scarf wrapped around her head and knotted under her chin.
The mugs clinked together when I looped my fingers through what I could carry. Beside me, Grandma rooted through the cabinet for the jar of instant coffee and the collection of sugar packets we’d gotten from McDonald’s.
“¡Ven!” I called when I returned to the dining room. The word, familiar to my ear, was foreign on my tongue. I didn’t even know if it was the right use.
It didn’t matter. Groans and the sounds of creaking furniture came from the living room like I’d raised the dead, and in a way, I had. They drifted in, my aunts and uncles, their conversation trailing behind them like chiffon cloaks, light and unsubstantial. My mom walked in last. She flashed me a smile as if to say, Are you excited?
It was a momentous occasion, because rather than run around outside with my cousins who were impervious to the fall air, I was going to sit and talk among the adults.
The dining room, normally small, seemed to stretch by some magic to encompass all these bodies gathering at the table. Three of my uncles leaned against the walls, my nina behind me.
Sitting next to my mom, I rolled the cobalt blue mug between my fingers. I hoped they would talk about exciting things. I hoped they wouldn’t hold back with the gossip. I wanted to hear it all, nothing toned down for my sake.
My Grandma went first, digging the spoon into the instant coffee and scooping two heaping spoonfuls into her mug which said, But first, café. The container went to Uncle Efren, who took his and passed it on and on, until at last it came to me.
I pulled up a spoonful, and my mom went tch. My relatives laughed, and Uncle Efren exclaimed, “¡Eso!”
I looked at my mom, my ears growing warm. My first Talk, and I already made a mistake.
“That’s too much,” my mom cautioned.
“Déjala,” Grandma said. She poured hot water into her mug, and it sounded like a xylophone, playing a cord until it ended on a high note. “I used to drink that much when I was her age—younger, even.”
“That was a different time, Mom. A different country, too.” My mom looked back at me. “Your skin’s gonna be buzzing,” she warned.
The spoon hovered over the jar, a mini-hill perched on top. I didn’t want my skin to buzz like my mom said, but I didn’t want to disappoint my Grandma, either, who watched me with crinkled eyes. As a weak compromise, I shook several grains back into the container and dumped the rest into my mug.
“Just add a lot of cream,” my mom sighed.
After adding water, I waited until the cream (which was actually Mocha Mix) made its way to me. With fascination, I watched the white bloom like liquid smoke, and as it spread, it transformed my black drink into a camel shade. It smelled like warm dreams, the steam curling above our mugs like a looped typeface.
My nina went to the kitchen and returned with a large paper bag. Everyone oohed and clamored for their favorite piece as if we were at an auction. I, myself, took the neapolitan one and rested it on a napkin. At least, that’s what I called the tri-colored one. No one knew it by name.
With coffees and pan dulces ready, Grandma began.
She started by asking about everyone’s health, and the health of their families. My Aunt Sonya went into detail about her hernia, and while the topic horrified me, everyone nodded in commiseration.
I’d asked for this.
To cover my feelings, which I was sure played across my face like a football match, I lifted my mug and took a sip.
The coffee tasted awful. Hot and bitter. Nothing like its delicious scent advertised—I felt betrayed.
It seemed I was the only one. Everyone else drank and talked and ate and talked, no moment missed in weaving this tapestry of conversation, leaving me outside.
Today I vow not to do that to the newcomer—my nephew—and with this change it makes his first time an echo of mine, as I’m sure mine was a rhyme of another relative’s. My cousins and I, having grown into our new roles as moms and dads, aunts and uncles, take our places along the sides of the same dining room, some of us spilling into the kitchen. There’s more of us, but fewer, too. My Grandma’s no longer here, but there are new Grandmas in her stead. Grandpas now, too.
I watch my nephew dig the spoon into the container, excitement brewing in my stomach. He inevitably pulls up too much for his first time, and I exclaim, “¡Eso!” He may not understand the definition, but he’ll get the sentiment.
My cousin whispers something to him, and I laugh when he dumps half his spoonful back in. She looks at me and rolls her eyes.
I raise my mug up to my lips—Café con chisme—and take a sip.
Sabina Y. Wong (she/her) was born and raised in Los Angeles and lives in a tiny apartment made from the hundreds of books in her TBR. Her work is forthcoming in Janus Literary. Though she’s supposed to be writing, she can often be found on Twitter and Instagram @SabinaYWong.