nohkôm's Coffee

NOHKÔM'S COFFEE

by Benjamin Johns

(Content warning: deals with themes of death and grief)

The floorboard creaks beneath my weight as I step into the kitchen. Faded green cabinets and a yellow counter surround the small space. nohkôm's old Chambers stove rests against the far wall, her kettle and French press perched atop it. 

My arms ache from the heavy box I hold. 

“Only a few more,” I tell myself, half-dreading the task ahead.

I drop the box on the counter and sink onto a stool, wiping a waterfall of sweat from my brow. “Why didn’t I hire movers?” I ask out loud. “Oh, right, I decided to pursue my dream of being a writer, and writers don’t make mover money.” I laugh as my half-hearted joke echoes in the empty house. 

I glance at the French press, the handle still gleaming as brightly as the day nimosōm brought it home from the farmer’s market. My reflection in the handle looks tired; its funhouse mirror effect widens my face, distorting it to look fleshy and old. 

Nope, I think. That's just how I look. 

My attention catches on the grey streaks that run through my once-black hair. 

“Creator! When did this happen?” I ponder wearily.

I rise from the stool and move to the French press. My heart starts to race as I pick it up. With shaking hands, I set it on the counter and dash out of the room, over the creaky floorboard, past the back door, and into the yard. 

I bound into the open door of the U-Haul, tearing through boxes until I find the one labelled “Medicine.” I lug it inside, placing it beside the French press, then turn to fill the kettle with water. 

As the kettle heats, I sift through jars filled with dried tobacco, sage, and sweetgrass. 

“Finally!” I exclaim as I lift the jar of ground coffee—nohkôm’s favourite kind of medicine.

I put three generous tablespoons into the French press. The image of the coffee grounds settling excites me, like completing the borders of a puzzle, knowing everything else will soon fall into place. 

The kettle whistles behind me, surprising me. Has it already been long enough for the water to boil? I wonder. 

I grab a cloth from the drawer and pour the steaming water into the French press. nohkôm always managed to burn sweetgrass or find a tree to bury tobacco beside, but her true medicine was coffee. 

Tears blur my vision as the memory floods back.

I sat on the far end of the kitchen counter, the kettle boiling water for nohkôm’s French press.

“How are you doing, my boy?” she asked, the floor creaking as she entered. She took the seat next to me. 

My heart ached seeing the grey streaks running through her hair.

“You know I could always come down for a weekend and fix that floorboard?” I said, dodging the question. “This old house could use a few touch-ups. I mean, you still have a stove from the fifties.”

“Touch-ups?” she replied, shocked. “Just because something’s old doesn’t mean it’s broken. Would you say that about me?” 

I gave her a knowing smile. 

“Oh, stop it!” she laughed, giving me a heartfelt slap on the shoulder. 

nohkôm looked at me for a long moment, thoughtful. I resisted the urge to squirm.

“Out of all my grandkids, you’re the only one who visits every month,” she said, touching my arm. “And you already visited this month.”

“Maybe I just really wanted to talk to you,” I said, avoiding her eyes.

“I’m old, but not too old to forget how a phone works. So if you’re here, there’s a reason.” 

nohkôm stood as the kettle began to whistle. Its high-pitched screech echoed the sound in my head. 

“Do you remember the last time I was here?” I asked, my heart racing.

“Yes, you told me you met someone special,” she replied with a mischievous smile.

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you—”

“Just remember,” she interrupted. “If you've got your eye on a pretty girl, make sure to—”

“It’s not a girl!” I blurted out before my courage faded, feeling my heart in my throat as the words escaped. 

The silence in the room hung like a heavy fog. The kettle hissed as nohkôm poured hot water into the French press. 

“Did I ever tell you how I figured out kimosôm loved me unconditionally?” she asked.

“N... no,” I stammered.

nohkôm put the top of the French press securely in place.

“Our elders say our spirits return to the Creator when we die. They say the person who loves us most will introduce us to the land of spirits.” 

nohkôm pressed down firmly on the arm of the French press. 

“Now, kimosôm, being kimosôm, didn’t want to wait to find out who that person was,” she said as she poured the golden-brown liquid into our cups. “He eventually learned you’d know who that person was when you got an uncontrollable urge to make them a cup of coffee.”  

Tears formed in her eyes as she held my gaze. 

“And I just can’t help but make you a cup.” 

I hear the floorboard creak as the memory fades, and I am brought back to the present.

“nohkôm?!” I call out, turning to the doorway, expecting to see her standing there with her mischievous smile. But all I see is empty air. 

I turn back to the counter. The French press stands empty, its grounds settled at the bottom. Steam rises from a cup of coffee beside it, its golden-brown liquid shining in the light. 

nohkôm had spent the last few months with me in the city—even as her illness progressed, she still managed to make me a cup of coffee every morning. 

I smile as I lift the cup to my lips, knowing I’ll see her again.

BENJAMIN JOHNS is the co-creator of the Cree & D podcast and co-founder of the Dirtbags writing workshop. He is a published author in the Bolo Tie Collective with a short story titled I Could Have Been an Olympian. Benjamin Johns is an enthusiastic Dungeons & Dragons player, combining his creativity for creating new worlds with a passion for improvisational storytelling. He channels his love for the fantasy genre through the lens of Cree storytelling in pursuit of creating an indigenous led fantasy genre that focuses on hard magic systems. With his unique blend of goals and talents, he continues to explore and inspire in diverse fields.

nohkôm's Coffee was edited by Sri Prasad. It can be found in Tales & Feathers Volume 4.