365 Cups of Coffee

Epilogue

    It never ceases to amaze me that I never feel the pain building up in my muscles until I reach the top of a mountain.  Instead, I feel it all in my lungs, heaving to catch a breath, wondering when I can call the next rest, but always pushing forward, because that’s what you do.  Never do anything halfway.  You can’t do that in life, and you can’t do that when you climb, and you certainly can’t do that when you write a novel.  I pause for a brief second to wipe sweat away from my forehead, and Daniel looks back, asks me if I need to stop.  But I shake my head no, smiling in reassurance.  I’m going to push ahead just a little more.

    The temperature is sticking to my face in the humidity, and I gasp in relief at every gust of breeze that blows through.  When the air is stagnant, the sweat plasters to my face, smothers it.  I never remember why I agree to these hikes until I get to the top.  But in the meantime, it becomes pure torture as I push myself to the ends of my abilities, music driving me forever upwards. 

    We break above the tree-line at precisely noon, and we stop for lunch.  I wearily sit down on a rock across from Daniel as other hikers pass us.  I’ve packed pasta and Almond Joy; I’ve found that’s the best remedy.  I feel the effects of the carbs almost instantly, as energy flows back through me.  It’s like a wave of relief, and, temporarily, I’m reenergized just enough to push me up to the top without another stop.  I’m getting better at this, getting better at moving steadily upwards and hardly stopping.  Today I stopped only twice.  The first time Daniel and I went hiking, I couldn’t even make it to the top I was so out of shape.

    But things are getting better, in more ways than one.  This summer, I’m going back to Savannah for the first time in over a year.  I’m going to visit all my old friends and hang out for just a weekend.  And I haven’t had a bad flashback in months.  I’m just looking ahead to the future, and it seems brighter than ever.  I’m going to apply to colleges in Boston and be a city girl again, but I’ll still be close to home. 

    We reach the top of the mountain in another half hour.  Unlike the mountain we climbed last time, this one is in the White Mountains, and I can see the landscape stretch out for miles, mountains in every direction.  We don’t see any civilization anywhere, even though we know for a fact there are towns below, with little shops and ice cream and places to eat dinner.  And likely a nice cafe to drink some coffee in, which is what I’ll drag Daniel into before we go to get ice cream.  But for now, I bask in the sunlight.  I can feel it on my face as I sprawl out on the top of the mountain, exhausted.  It is only now that I feel the stiffness in my legs.

    I stretch out my legs while I take in the view.  I can see Lake Winnipesaukee stretched out in front of me.  A boat dances across the surface of the water, and Daniel points it out to me.

    “That’s a dinner cruise they run out of Meredith,” he says.  “We should do it sometimes.  I used to do it when I was little.  Wonder what it would be like now, with you.  There’s dancing, and food, and it goes until well after dark.  If your mom would be okay with me driving you home late.”

    “It’s summer,” I say.  “I’m sure I could convince her.”

    Daniel grins.  “Well let’s put it on our list, then.”

    We’ve got a summer list, of things we want to do.  And then a list of things we want to do before we graduate.  Like a bucket list, almost, but less complete, less final.  So I make a mental note to add it to the list once we get back down to the car.  And then we both quiet down and sit on top of the mountain together, looking around at our surroundings.  This is always how it is.  Every single time, we are always awed by the beauty of the mountains.  So we sit in silence and look around, grateful for the breeze and the chillier temperature at the higher altitude.  I love how undisturbed the top of a mountain is.  Even with the people who come up here and hike, everyone else is quiet, too, enjoying the beauty, or catching their breath.

    After half an hour, we go back down the mountain.  The trip downwards is always quicker, always more energetic and talkative, since there’s no breath to lose.  The ache in our calves is the only true ache we feel on the way down.  Today, I make up some dumb rhyme on the way down, and Daniel comes up with some tune for it.  Then we belt it out whenever we’re the only ones on the trail.  At the bottom of the mountain, I race to the car and call the driver’s seat.  I have my license now, so I can drive us to a coffee shop we’ve been to before after another hike.  I actually haven’t had coffee in nearly a week, so I’m craving one.

    I hop out of the car and order myself a coffee; I’m on that post-exercise high where I feel even more energetic than before the climb, but I know if I don’t get coffee, I’ll crash shortly after I get home.  I order a hazelnut macchiato, and Daniel orders an iced coffee. 

    “Seriously?” I ask him, and he arches an eyebrow.

    “What?” he asks defensively. 

    “An iced coffee?” I ask.

    “It’s summer!” he protests, and I roll my eyes.

    “That doesn’t give you an excuse.  What’s the point of iced coffee?”

    “What makes it so different from frozen coffee?”

    “Frozen coffee is good when you want something sugary with an extra kick.  But if you want pure coffee, you’ve got to get it hot, like it’s supposed to be.  When you take that first sip, it’s supposed to be bitter, and then you keep drinking it, and suddenly that sweet richness comes out, fills you and warms you.  But with iced coffee, there’s none of that richness.  It’s just bland and boring and cold.  You can’t breathe in the smell like you do with hot coffee.  It doesn’t drift through your entire body.  It’s just . . . stupid.”

    He laughs.  “You’re so particular about the funniest things.”

    I get my coffee and sit down at a table.  After not having coffee for so long, I appreciate this one so much more, cherish the way the blend of flavors washes over my tongue, trickles down to my stomach where it will make it churn just slightly before sweet, artificial energy flows through my veins.  Coffee is like my drug. 

    Once we’re done with our coffee, we go to get ice cream, and we walk through the town, down to the river where people sit on inner tubes and get carried away by the current until they drift too far downstream and jump out, capturing their tubes before they float too far away.  Then they repeat the whole cycle, daring each other to go further and further down the river until someone accidentally ducks out of their tube in a particularly deep part of the river and doesn’t have the time to rescue the tube before they get their footing on a nearby rock.

    Daniel and I roll our eyes, but know if we had tubes, we’d be joining them, too.  Instead, we sit on a rock partially submerged in the water, the seat of our shorts becoming saturated with water as we lick our own double scoop ice cream.  I look over at him and smile.  Every part of my body feels fulfilled, like I’m bursting at the seams with happiness and belonging.  And, sitting there, watching the people laughing and smiling, splashing their friends, rolling their eyes at a dumb joke, I realize something.

    Life is like a watercolor.  The past, all my younger years, have been like the background.  They set the mood, the foundations for the painting.  And now, slowly, the details are finally coming into detail, as I gain more experience, learn how to paint them in.  And eventually, someday, they’re going to form a masterpiece.  So right now, maybe, I’ll make mistakes, have days where the paints just blend together, but one day, I’ll wake up and realize that everything has worked out, that all the pieces have come together to form a perfect, beautiful, coherent whole.  And although I might not be able to change what I painted in the past, I can always paint over it so it becomes something good. 

    I am Aspen Laurent.  I am sixteen years old.  I am the writer of my own story and the painter of my own portrait.  And, today, shorts soaking wet, body and mind energized from caffeinated energy, best friend by my side, I have realized that it’s a beautiful story, and a beautiful portrait.