Placing the package on the desk before me, I sit down, trying to remember the last time we spoke. I rifle through memories as a 60s secretary might deftly flip through a Rolodex. I grab one from here, one from there. I find two old ones stuck to another, and peel them apart, inspecting each. The last time we spoke, we might have been in that little café in Dar es Salaam. I decide it was, and go from there.
“Are you sure you have to go?” you asked. The inflection in your voice and the look on your face told me you already knew the answer. I didn’t bother providing one. Then you asked what I might miss most about Tanzania, and, thinking back, it feels like I took a long time to answer. I find there’s usually little purpose in missing anything; we can always return to where we were.
I’m not good at nostalgia.
The small dog, she curls up at my feet, while the large dog cranes her neck to sniff at the package on the desk. Like a child’s rubber stamp, her wet nose turns the brown paper dark where she touches it. I don’t do anything to stop her; she knows what she’s doing.
I wonder now what I thought about after that question. What would I miss about Tanzania? Perhaps I considered telling you I would miss the beach, the ocean. Perhaps your uncle’s hospitality. Piloting scooters through crowded streets. The chaotic bazaars. The feeling of the hot sun on my back so close to the equator. The way the stars in the night sky looked different.
“Coffee,” I said at last. “I will miss the coffee.” I raised the tiny ceramic cup in a mock toast and took a sip, the hot, acrid liquid eating its way past my tongue and down my throat. It was the strongest, most delicious coffee I had ever tasted in my life.
You tilted your head and grinned, sincerely happy with my answer, and said: “That’s easy.” I thought your response strange then, but knew better than to question it – and now I now fully understand your reaction. The near boundless depth of your thoughtfulness should never be underestimated.
I pick up the package, the dog’s approving eyes watching my every move, and raise it to my nose to sniff. Inhaling slowly, deeply, my brain picks its way through various scents. Past the smell of grime and paper. Past the smell of tape glue and stamp gum. Past the smell of ink and cardboard. And there it is, buried beneath all of those other olfactory delights, the fresh smell of roasted coffee beans.
The large dog looks on, curious, as I begin carefully unwrapping the package. She tilts her head to one side and then the other. The small dog at my feet whimpers in her sleep and kicks her legs. She dreams, digging through her subconscious the way she might dig a hole in the backyard. Only here, there is no human to stop her. Here, there is no need for her to stop digging. Holding a corner of the creased, brown paper, I mutter under my breath: “Dig deeper, my friend.”
Peeling away the last bit of wrap, the powerful aroma of coffee suddenly hits me like the warmest, most welcome of waves. Picking up a magnifying glass, I turn the paper in my hands and examine the smudged postmark and stamps. They’re from somewhere in Indonesia. Me, I’ve been teleported back to that café in Dar es Salaam. You, you’re already gone.
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