We gather round the dining table; Mum with her tight dark curls at one end, then me and my brothers, then Dad. I’m hoping my older brother won’t start a row. He and Dad always argue politics over fish’n chips on Saturdays, but this is Sunday and we’ve been to church.
Coffee’s hot in the tall green pot, elegant, smooth-lined, smooth-scented with the warmth of hot milk. Dad pours into tiny cups. He mixed instant with the real stuff once when we ran short; a heresy worse than religion or politics.
The sun shines, shading my memories coffee-brown and sweet.