War and Coffee
War and coffee
For me, war and coffee go hand in hand. I simply cannot have one without thinking of the other.
“Dacia, do you mean war figuratively?”
No, I mean war in the very literal sense of the word. More specifically, coffee reminds me of the war on terrorism and Iraq.
Before I get too far ahead of myself, let me add that I have always loved the smell of coffee. My dad’s parents both drank it constantly throughout their day. The smell of coffee and cigarettes was a staple of childhood. Strangely enough I did not learn how to drink coffee until well into my twenties. I find myself, even today, modifying the potion with the latest trend in sweeteners. The nostalgia it brings now does not take me back to my grandparent’s small house in Henderson, Kentucky. It takes me to a place of horror and self-discovery; of trauma and triumph.
War smells like dirt and raw chicken. Baghdad circa 2007 through 2009; I worked in the emergency room in the “Green Zone”, also known as Baghdad ER. It was more secure than most places per square foot, however it was still dangerous. Rarely were we shot at with simple gunfire, but often we stood under threat of mortars and rockets that targeted the hospital compou...