A Cup of Lavender

A Cup of Lavender and Memory This morning, I stopped by a local café to grab a quick coffee. I wasn’t planning on anything fancy—just my usual—but the cashier smiled and asked, “Have you tried our new lavender honey latte?” I paused. It wasn’t something I would normally choose. But I knew I had to say yes. Because that was Sana’s favorite coffee. My coffee connoisseur, my daughter who introduced me to flavored lattes and experimental brews during her time in New York, would have insisted. I remember when she first told me about lavender honey coffee—I wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Lavender? In coffee? But she insisted I try it. And so I did. And I understood, then, how joy could be found in the smallest, softest flavors. I haven’t come across that coffee in a long time. So today, when the universe offered it to me unexpectedly, it felt like a little nudge from her. A whisper. A presence. Sana had no qualms spending $10 on a beautifully crafted coffee, even if it made Idris frown. “Who pays that much for coffee?” he would mutter. But that was Sana—unapologetic in her small joys. She believed in quality. She believed in treating herself to good coffee and fresh, wholesome salads. Those two things, no matter how trivial they may seem to others, were her rituals. Her comfort. After her liver transplant, when her body was still healing and her strength was fragile, she asked if we could go out—to a nearby café. She carefully picked out a well-coordinated outfit, wanting to feel like herself again. We walked slowly, and she ordered her favorite Nutella coffee. It was such a simple moment, but the joy on her face, the quiet pride of reclaiming normalcy, made it unforgettable. She was in pain, yet she chose joy. She didn’t dwell in her suffering, didn’t draw attention to it. She had a remarkable ability to say “I’m okay,” even when I knew she wasn’t. That courage still leaves me in awe. Now, every time I feel unwell—even with something as small as a headache—I think of her. I think of the pain she bore with grace and silence, and I remind myself of the strength she embodied. There is something sacred in these everyday connections. A coffee. A memory. A flavor that brings back her voice, her laughter, her light. I want her to be remembered not just for what she endured, but for how she lived—with resilience, with courage, and with an ability to find magic in the mundane. And maybe, just maybe, when I sip a lavender honey latte, she’s sipping one too, somewhere close, smiling that smile that said, “See? I told you it was worth it.”