COCOA

My cousin came to stay because she had no choice. Child of divorce she came to us when her father’s job took him to far away Arabia, and her mother had no home yet to offer. She came with anger and frustrated dreams. But because of her coming I learned about the wonder of cocoa in the middle of the night.

Cocoa, made with sugar and Hershey powder, milk simmering on the stove; brown seal skimmed off the top; and a large marshmallow floating, melting like a soft warm lollipop slippery on the tongue, savored between sips of sweet, sweet cocoa. Cocoa with a sharp tang that does not come with the quick spoon-in mixes.

Cocoa and sitting at the kitchen table long after we should be asleep. Sitting together while everyone else is probably sound asleep. Sitting in the chilly cocoa-warm kitchen: Mommy, my cousin/for-always-sister, and me. Sitting while my mommy talked to my cousin/sister and helped her with her rage.

I had so much. To her, it was not fair, and in the middle of the night she would kick. Kick her sister that was not, kick at what she did not understand, and could not have, would never have. If she kicked hard enough, or long enough, I got mad because she would not let me sleep. Getting up, I stumbled down the hall into my parents’ room to complain. Then Mommy would come and take us to the kitchen and fix that cocoa.

Cocoa never meant so much when made at other times. Middle of the night cocoa always tasted richer, somehow sweeter when we sat around the kitchen table with the blank dark night looking in, and quiet stealing with creaks and whispery drafts through the house.

Curled on the hard kitchen chair, I sipped and relished that special cocoa and felt the love that made us warm and chased away the fear that night-time brings to children alone in the middle of the night. And then, with our cups reluctantly left in the sink behind, my cousin and I would snuggle down and be tucked in again.

I knew my cousin could not help it. The rage, the kicking in the night was not her fault. Mommy tried to explain, I think, either to me or her, or both. I did not mind very much, except I liked to sleep—I was rather hoggish about my sleep.

But if Mommy got up and made us cocoa and sat talking with us until it was finished, and sometimes, even after—on the edge of our shared bed until we started drifting off—then I did not really mind.  And my cousin always said she was sorry, and I said it was okay (secretly rather glad because I got to have that special cocoa once again), and we would go to sleep.

My cousin only stayed with us for a year or two, and after she left, I never had that special cocoa again.  She came to stay because she had no choice. But because of her coming, I had had my cocoa and the magic warm circle around the kitchen table in the middle of the night. I learned about the wonder of cocoa in the middle of the night, old-fashioned cocoa in the middle of the night with a fat fresh marshmallow melting was being loved, and that after all was all that really mattered.

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#January25