- The Second Cup
- My name is Margaret Briggs. I’m seventy-one years old.
- And at exactly 6:18 on a Thursday evening in October, at a dinner table in Scottsdale, Arizona, my only son looked across a roast chicken I had cooked and asked me when I was finally going to leave.
- But that’s the middle of the story.
- Let me start where it started.
- On a porch.
- With a cup of tea.
- Harold and I were married for forty-four years.
- We met at a church picnic in Flagstaff in 1979. He was twenty-six. I was twenty-five. He was a high school shop teacher with sawdust in his hair and a laugh you could hear across a parking lot. I was a bookkeeper at a lumber company. He came to buy two-by-fours for his students and stayed an hour arguing with me about the price.
- He asked me to dinner. I said no.
- He came back the next week for more two-by-fours he didn’t need.
- I said yes.
- We moved to Tucson in 1984. Harold got a job teaching woodshop at Catalina High School. I got a job doing the books for a plumbing company.
- We bought a little house on East Linden Street. Two bedrooms. A carport. A front porch with a ceiling fan that wobbled.
- We paid fifty-eight thousand dollars for it.
- We lived there for thirty-eight years.
- I painted the kitchen yellow the first week.
- Harold said it looked like the inside of a lemon. I said that was the point. He painted the cabinets white to match. He built a breakfast nook by the window out of oak he salvaged from an old church in Bisbee. He carved our initials into the underside of the table where nobody could see.
- H.B. + M.B. 1984.
- I planted roses along the front walk. Six bushes. Mister Lincoln. Double Delight. Peace. Harold teased me that roses don’t belong in the desert. I watered them every morning at six before the heat came.
- They bloomed for thirty-eight years.
- And every morning, Harold drank tea on the porch.
- Not coffee. Tea. Earl Grey. With honey and a splash of milk. In a blue mug I bought him at a craft fair in Tubac in 1986. He sat in the same wooden rocker he built himself. He drank one cup before he left for school.
- On weekends, he drank two.
- The second cup was the important one.
- He told me that once. Early on. A Saturday. I asked him why he always made a second cup on weekends when he only drank one on weekdays.
- “The first cup,” he said, “is for waking up.”
- “And the second?”
- He looked at me over the rim of the blue mug.
- “The second cup is for staying,” he said. “It’s for when you’re not in a hurry to be anywhere else. When the place you are is the place you want to be.”
- He made a sign.
- That week. In his garage workshop. Out of a piece of mesquite. He wood-burned the letters himself. He hung it on the porch, right above the rocker.
- EVERY HOUSE NEEDS A PORCH FOR THE SECOND CUP.
- It hung there for thirty-seven years.
- Daniel grew up under it.
- Daniel was born in 1987.
- Our only child. We tried for more. It didn’t happen.
- He was a sweet boy. Serious. Curious. He’d sit on the porch steps next to Harold’s rocker on Saturday mornings with a juice box while Harold drank his second cup. He’d ask questions about everything. Why is the sky blue. Why do roses have thorns. Why does Daddy drink two cups on Saturday.
- Harold would point at the sign.
- “Read it, Danny,” he’d say.
- And Daniel would sound it out. Slowly. Six years old.
- Ev-er-y house needs a porch for the sec-ond cup.
- “What does it mean?” Daniel asked.
- “It means,” Harold said, “that home isn’t the house. It’s the place you don’t want to leave.”
- Daniel read that sign every Saturday for twelve years.
- Then he grew up.
- And I don’t think he ever looked at it again.
- Daniel went to Arizona State. He studied business. He met Renee there. She was in nursing. Pretty. Organized. Ambitious. She kept a planner with colored tabs.
- They married in 2012. They moved to Scottsdale. Daniel got a job in commercial real estate. Renee became a nurse manager at a hospital.
- They had two children.
- Chloe, who’s twelve now. Long dark hair. Her grandfather’s laugh. She reads everything.
- And Caleb, who’s nine. Freckles. Missing a front tooth. Obsessed with lizards.
- They bought a big house in north Scottsdale. Stucco. Tile roof. A pool. A three-car garage. A community gate with a guard.
- We visited at Christmas. And Easter. And birthdays.
- Harold didn’t like it much. He said the house was nice but it didn’t have a porch.
- “Where do you sit in the morning, Danny?” he asked once.
- “I don’t sit in the morning, Dad,” Daniel said. “I go to work.”
- Harold looked at him for a long time.
- He didn’t say anything.
- Harold died two years ago.
- In March. A stroke. On a Saturday morning.
- On the porch.
- In his rocker. With his blue mug.
- I found him at seven-fifteen. When I came out with the honey he’d forgotten.
- The mug was still warm.
- It was his second cup.
- Daniel came down from Scottsdale that afternoon.
- He stayed for the funeral. He handled the arrangements. He was good at it. Efficient. Calm. He made a spreadsheet.
- After the funeral, he sat at the yellow kitchen table with me.
- In the breakfast nook his father built.
- “Mom,” he said. “You shouldn’t live alone.”
- “I’m fine, Daniel.”
- “You’re seventy,” he said. “This house is old. The roof needs work. The air conditioning’s twenty years old. What if you fall? What if something happens and nobody’s here?”
- I didn’t say anything.
- “Move in with us,” Daniel said. “For a while. Just until you’re ready.”
- He took my hand.
- “Renee agrees,” he said. “The kids would love it. We have the room. The casita by the pool. It’s got its own bathroom. Its own entrance.”
- He squeezed my hand.
- “Just until you’re ready, Mom,” he said.
- I believed him.
- I sold the house on East Linden Street.
- I sold my yellow kitchen.
- My six rose bushes.
- The porch with the wobbly ceiling fan.
- The breakfast nook with our initials carved underneath.
- The rocker. I couldn’t bring the rocker. Renee said there wasn’t room.
- I packed away an entire lifetime into fourteen boxes.
- The last thing I took down was the sign.
- EVERY HOUSE NEEDS A PORCH FOR THE SECOND CUP.
- I wrapped it in a bath towel.
- I put it in the back seat of my Buick. Next to Harold’s blue mug, wrapped in newspaper.
- I drove to Scottsdale.
- Renee put the sign in the garage.
- “We don’t have a porch, Margaret,” she said. Kindly. “There’s nowhere to hang it. I’ll keep it safe in here.”
- She put it on a metal shelf. Between a box of Christmas decorations and a case of bottled water.
- At first, they treated me like a guest.
- Renee made up the casita with new sheets. Daniel put a little TV on the dresser. Chloe made me a welcome sign out of construction paper and taped it to the door. WELCOME HOME GRANDMA!!! With glitter.
- They took me to dinner at a nice restaurant the first Saturday. Daniel ordered wine. Renee asked me about Harold. The kids drew pictures on the paper tablecloth.
- I cried in the bathroom afterward.
- Good tears.
- Then life settled into a routine.
- And slowly, I became useful.
- It started small.
- Renee worked twelve-hour shifts at the hospital. Daniel worked late. The kids got out of school at three.
- “Margaret,” Renee said, the second week. “Would you mind picking up the kids from school on Tuesday? I’ve got a late meeting.”
- “Of course.”
- Then Thursday.
- Then every day.
- “Margaret, would you mind making dinner tonight? I’m exhausted.”
- “Of course.”
- Then three nights a week.
- Then four.
- “Margaret, would you mind driving Caleb to soccer? Daniel’s got a client dinner.”
- “Of course.”
