My Journey as a Coffee Bean
Dear diary,
This morning, the fog came early again. I could barely see the mountains around me, but I could hear the cranes. They always fly low this time of year. Their calls echo over the coffee fields — long, quiet, and somehow comforting.
The sun didn’t show up until late, but when it did, the dew on my skin started to warm. I’ve been growing here for months, surrounded by other cherries like me. The farmers walk between the trees every day. They don’t say much, but they hum little songs. Sometimes they touch the leaves gently, checking how we’re doing.
Today, they decided it was my turn. Their hands were warm and careful. They picked me and placed me in a basket with others, it smelled sweet, like fruit and soil. I felt a bit nervous. I had never left the branch before.
Down in the village, they washed me clean with mountain water and spread me under the sun. The days were bright, and I could feel the air dry me slowly. There was laughter, sometimes music. At night, I could still hear the cranes.
Weeks later, I arrived at a small roasting room. The people there talked softly, testing the heat, waiting for the right color. When they said, “Perfect,” I felt light, warm, and proud. I had changed, not just in color, but in spirit.
And now, here I am. Ground, brewed, and poured into someone’s favorite cup. Maybe you’re the one holding me now. Maybe it’s morning where you are, and the first sip feels a little like sunlight on your face.
If you listen closely, you might still hear the cranes.
