The First Sip

By Peter Bowden


The boy sat close to the fire, the flames licking skyward, smoke twisting into the pines. His father crouched beside the iron pot, steady hand tipping the blackened handle. The aroma was strong, bitter, and alive with heat. He poured a tin cup halfway, then another. He handed one to the boy, metal warm against his palm. The father said nothing at first. The crackle of wood and the song of a night bird filled the space between them.

The boy lifted it cautiously, lips brushing the rim. The taste was sharp, dark, and biting. He wanted to flinch, to push it away, but his father watched him with quiet eyes, and so he swallowed. The warmth ran down his throat, spreading into his chest like fire turned gentle. The boy’s face broke into something between surprise and pride. His father smiled faintly, a line deepening on his cheek, the way it always did when he saw something worth remembering.

The fire cast shadows that danced across their boots, flickered against the tin, and drew the world into a circle no wider than its glow. The father drank and set his cup down. The boy mimicked him, already part of a rhythm older than words. Above them, the stars opened wide, infinite and waiting. Coffee, smoke, pine, and silence stitched the night together, binding father to son in the simple act of sharing first sips.

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