What You See From Where You Sit

In the morning, I boil water.
While watching the steam rise in small wisps, I grind coffee beans.
The rhythmic grinding sound echoes softly through the still-quiet room.

Outside the window, the sky is just beginning to turn white.
The leaves on the trees in the garden are shimmering faintly in the morning light.

I pour the hot water slowly.
The coffee grounds bloom.
Deep within that, another day begins.

When I suddenly look up, I see the usual spot.
At the far end of the dining table, by the window.

The seat where you sit.

——

When my son started elementary school, I was thinking about buying him a desk for his daily studies.
But because of one thing my wife said, we decided not to buy one after all.

"I want to be able to see him studying right in front of me."

I think that statement was a mix of many emotions—worry, expectation, and more.
But now, I feel that perhaps she was looking much further into the future.

Six years have passed since then.
My son still studies at the dining table where the four of us gather.

When he gets home from school, he tosses his backpack onto the floor with a thud, then clatters as he takes out his textbooks and lines them up on the table.

——but he doesn't get any further than that.

Today, too, the textbooks are just lying open, and he hasn't made much progress.
It takes him about as long as a short trip just to reach the first question.

Before I know it, his pencil is rolling away, his eraser has been taken apart, and for some reason, the refrigerator door is open.
I wish he would use even a little bit of that focus for his Japanese studies.

His hand reaches for the game console controller.
My wife's glare is sharp.

Days of walking on eggshells.
Getting him to start is the truly difficult part.

He even quit the cram school he had been attending for a year and a half.
My wife couldn't handle it anymore when our son would throw a tantrum every time, saying, "I don't want to go."

My son has characteristics of developmental disabilities (ADHD, ASD).

Until about the third grade of elementary school, he couldn't sit still in the classroom.
He would stand up, wander around aimlessly, sometimes go out into the hallway, or even run out onto the school grounds to play tag with the principal.

I remember he would even end up in the principal's office, folding origami together.

When I think back on it, I find myself smiling a little.
And at the same time, I feel a gentle warmth deep in my chest.

So many people have been watching over you.
You have truly been helped by them.

——

Perhaps thanks to that, I feel you are very calm.

You are attending junior high school properly, too.

There is a child in your class who you haven't been in the same class with since you were in the lower grades of elementary school.
We talked during the school open house.

My son didn't study for his tests at all.

When I said that, the child looked a little surprised and said this.

Oh, but [Name] is in the classroom, isn't he?

With those words, the tension in my shoulders just melted away.

Ah, that's right.
It's enough that my child is able to be in the classroom.

Just being alive is a bonus.
That phrase suddenly popped into my head.

——

I want to help my son develop his strengths.

You are very innocent.
If you call that childish, that might be true.
But that straightforwardness is something that probably cannot be easily imitated.

Even when a problem arises, or when things are tough,
there is always someone on your side.

I think that is a power you possess.

Of course, that is built upon my wife's efforts.
It is built on the time she has spent watching over you right in front of her.

——

The dining table.
The same place.
The same view.

I am watching you while I drink my coffee.

You are peering into your textbook right in front of me.
As always, the pages aren't turning very fast.

But before I knew it,
you've evolved from "not doing it" to "looking like you're trying to do it."

And I feel like that is enough.

Lately, you've been making coffee for your mother every morning.
Your hands are still clumsy, but you are trying your best.

Eventually, the time will come for us to let go of each other.

Until that day,
I feel like this coffee time is what keeps our family connected.

The coffee time that connects a son and his mother.

Before long, you will probably start making coffee for yourself.
To have time of your own.

——

Thinking of such a future,
I am considering buying a new desk.

The desk I didn't buy back then.

A desk for you.

What will be placed there surely won't just be textbooks.
It will be your treasures, the ones you chose.

And the view from that desk,
might be a little different from what it is now.

But surely, it will be connected somewhere.

To that dining table,
to this place,
and to you.

——

We were supposed to talk about studying,
but before I knew it, we might have ended up talking about treasures.
Your treasures, and my precious ones.

#WhatAreYouTalkingAbout

While thinking about such idle matters,
I took another sip of coffee.
A sweet, sour, and slightly bitter one.

☕🍀

Handpot Roasted
I run a coffee shop.
I roast each batch carefully by hand in a pot after receiving an order.
I want to deliver the aroma of freshly roasted beans.