The old barista

 There is a café at the corner of memory and moment where every patron must choose their coffee, not in isolation, but in harmony with the meal of their life. Some select a bitter espresso, strong and unyielding, for theirs is a day of hard truths that must be swallowed quickly. Others cradle a creamy latte, sweetened just so, because today calls for gentleness, for small comforts. And then there are those who order their coffee black, no sugar, not out of preference, but because they have learned that some bitterness must be faced head-on, without dilution.  

The regulars know: the choice of coffee is never just about taste. It is about what the hour demands. A cappuccino, frothy and light, pairs with a morning of possibility; a dark roast, slow and deliberate, suits an afternoon of reflection. The man in the corner stirring three sugars into his cup does so not because he loves sweetness, but because today, life has asked too much of him, and he must soften the edges.  

Yet the rarest order of all is the one made not by habit, nor by need, but by sheer defiance. They are the persons who requests what they do not even like, simply to remind themselves that choice, too, is a kind of freedom.  

The barista, wise beyond her years, serves each cup without judgment. She knows that coffee is not just a drink, but a decision. One that echoes the three pillars: the clarity of routine (knowledge), the instinct for what the soul craves (wisdom), or the boldness to try something entirely new (faith).  

And so, the next time you stand before the menu of your life, ask yourself: What does this moment require? Not just of your hunger, but of your courage? The answer, like the perfect cup, is always brewing. You need only choose how to take it. Because sometimes, the act of choosing is more important than the drink itself.