This is my first morning without her after twelve years. Even this coffee I used to love tastes bitter in my mouth. I look at my old moka pot and remember: every morning, while I was distracted deciding which beans to grind, whether to try a new blend or play it safe, I heard her purring and the sound of the tip of her tongue rapidly flicking on the water as she drank from the bottom chamber; then I had to wash it out again. The same would happen the next day, and the next one.
      I was still young and pretty when my mother gave me this coffee pot; it was with me when I met my sweetheart fifty years ago, and it was with me when I married him, and then when he passed away and after that when Kiki found me brokenhearted and brought me back to life. I guess I have a bad habit of getting more attached to things than is healthy, even now when I’m a rancid old woman, I cannot let go of so many things now useless to me.
      Oh boy, I must have changed the valve at least a dozen times and I must have changed the gasket more times than I can remember. Fifty-two? No! for fifty-three years this faithful moka pot has brewed coffee for me. How much endurance and loyalty. How many people you have seen leave, including old Simon with whom I took you so many times in his old store to have your old age ailments repaired and alleviated; now that his uncaring and idiotic son is in charge, I don't think I can help you work much longer, as he’s ignorant and stingy and likes to make dangerous experiments that end up damaging everything he's given to repair. I even think he’s somewhat morbid and sadistic, that wicked boy. I still remember with disgust when Andy caught him snooping through our bedroom window while I was getting dressed, and how he promised he’d kill him for telling his dad, good old Simon who only knew how to apologize for his moronic son's wrongdoings. How can an apple fall so far from the tree. You may not make it to next year, my old friend, let alone after that jerk convinced me to patch you up with that cheap stuff, but you'll live long enough to see me be miserable again, that I can tell...
      I should have known yesterday when my stomach suddenly hurt. It was an omen. The same thing happened to me the day my Andy died. The image of poor Kiki with her sudden unsteady gait and her drooling will never leave me.
      Gosh, this coffee really tastes awful!
    Suddenly the house feels overwhelmingly lonely and cold. I can feel my bowels turning into a knot. Kiki would now come and rub her furry body against my legs to make me feel better, but she might be gone for good by now, and I don’t think I can take it.
      Gee, this coffee tastes terrible indeed! Or is it my tongue that has started dying before I do.
      Just the thought that I may have lost my Kiki causes me to suffer so much that it physically hurts.
    The mild dizziness drastically turns unbearable and I collapse. Although weak, while lying on the floor, I take my cell phone out of my pocket and see the incoming call from the veterinary clinic. I feel the vibrations of the ringing, and I can see the call on the phone screen, but I can't hear it. I only hear a distant buzzing sound, and I see how an opaque aura surrounds everything in front of me; it's a circle that gets smaller and smaller. I fear for the worst news. I won't be able to spend another night like this, without my Kiki, let alone knowing that I let her spend her last moments locked in a cage, alone, in a place she never liked to go.
      And just when I start to worry because my hands and my whole body have become stiff so I can't take the call, I feel the furry tail rubbing against my legs and see the blurry face of my Kiki coming to nose kiss me. This always makes me feel better, and she knows it well. Now my hands are responding; I can get up and squeeze her and cuddle her gently the way she likes it. Now I can see her clearly.
      I get to my feet and take a sip of my coffee which now tastes sweet as before. So it seems that having my Kiki back is all I needed; she has come to save me again.
      Invisible to the living, I witness the scene of my own death; "death by coffee," the stupid son of Simon mutters with a grin on his face, as the paramedics check for vitals. They'll probably never know the truth, but at least they won't take my old moka pot to put in a plastic evidence bag and take it away from me. Oh my, I'm hopeless! I guess I need to learn to let go; I have this bad habit of getting more attached to things than is healthy, but who cares anymore.

At least there is good coffee here.

This is my first time here in Cinnamon Cup Coffee. This community and contest strongly attracted my attention, so here I am after gathering the courage to resume my writing; you can find the prompts here. There's still time to participate 😀☕️

Coffee, cats and death are among my favorite fiction topics. Coffee and cats are among my favorite topics in general.

Horacia, in the picture, is one of my four cats and she's my coffee companion every morning.

All text and images are my own. I have taken the pictures with my Redmi 9T cell phone. And if any GIFs here, I've used GIPHY for all them.

Thank you so much for your visit :)

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