Smoke Follows Beauty

Coffee with my Ancestors

I get up in the quiet of the early morning and head to the kitchen. I pour water into my matte black gooseneck teakettle and flip the switch, the orange glow the only source of light in the pre-dawn. As it heats, I open the bag of dark roast beans, inhaling the vibrant scent. I pour them into the grinder and push down, the whir rudely interrupting the morning calm. Thirty seconds and it’s ebony sand.

I dampen the paper filter, fold the edges and fit it into the steel mesh cone. It sits snugly atop the delicate glass carafe, a fat bowl beneath a cinched middle, protected by a cork skirt. I measure three level scoops, just as the kettle lever pops up. I pour in a circular motion, letting the grounds bloom.

As I wait for the initial pour to seep through, I open the cabinet where I keep plain white coffee mugs. I glance at my late mother’s china pieces up on the higher shelves, and think, “Good morning, Mom!” Once the brew is complete, I pull the filter and pour, the dark liquid stark against the white cup. I froth some oat milk to top it off.

I carry my cup over to a little wooden table in the family room, covered with a white cloth. On it is a white candle, a clean glass of water, and a cone of incense.

I light the candle and the flame illuminates the space, reflecting off the water. When I light the incense, smoke starts to curl from the top in circular patterns, waving toward me, then away. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

I think about each of them in turn, the ancestors I know. My mother - I was there with my siblings for her very last breath. My father. My brother who died so young. And my big brother. Eventually I start to talk, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud. My tears come, subside, flow again.

My big brother, a sometimes-father figure who walked me down the aisle at my wedding, reminding me to slow down—he is the most recent one to pass. Just two years ago. The tears flow freely as I talk to him, tell him how much I miss him, that I wish I’d known him better, really known him, in a way he just never allowed.

I got it all out, then I stopped. And I listened.

And then something unexpected.

It was astonishing how clearly I could sense their messages to me. I didn’t hear voices, I didn’t see dead people. I just sensed them there, gently. I was not afraid. I was comforted.

I have always been a seeker. Quietly. I don’t talk about it, not even to my family. Our parents were raised in different Christian traditions, but decided to let us explore and decide what we believed.

But who wanted to be in church on Sunday, when we could be out riding our bikes or “running away” to the forest at the end of our street?

Maybe this was freedom. Maybe it was spiritual neglect. Being one of the few Black families in a place that was as white as the tundra certainly contributed to feeling like a misfit.

I grew up in Alaska. My childhood home was ordinary in an extraordinary place. The creak on the fourth stair from the top. The companion groan when you stepped on that one spot on the living room floor. The central vacuum where I would plug in the hose and do the stairs, the loud whir and hum of the motor. Magic how it just turned on when you pushed the hose into the hole.

My mom had this china cabinet in the living room. She had some pieces from her mother, my grandmother, Adeline. Over the years she added to her collection, not just china but all the delicate and tiny things she loved.

The cabinet was made of blonde wood with glass panel doors. It had lighting inside, to highlight the curios, the precious objects inside. I never knew which pieces were my grandmother’s. I didn’t give it much thought as a kid.

After my mom passed, we had to sell her home. I no longer lived in the state, so my brother and sister did the heavy lifting, going through all the things in a home that held so many memories.

Several years later, when my big brother died, we three sisters gathered with our children and his son, to remember him. Our big sister rented a home where we could gather. Our middle sister brought pieces of our mother’s china to the space, for each of us choose a few pieces. Big sister was our memory—she was the only one who really knew our maternal grandmother. She identified pieces that she recalled as having been handed down from our grandmother to our mother. We each chose some pieces and wrapped them carefully for travel. We spent the evening telling stories, laughing, playing games. Just being, together.

I have continued to commune with my ancestors—just listening, feeling my way through. The more I do it the more I sense what they want me to know.

One morning, I was preparing the space when I got the distinct message from my mom: pour me some coffee, too.

Without thinking, I reached up to the high shelf and took down one of the bone china pieces I have from that family gathering, from her china cabinet. A cup and saucer with a pink floral background, golden accents and hints of cornflower blue. I poured her a cup.

Looking at the incense smoke curling toward me and back toward the cup, I recalled how we’d go camping and the campfire smoke would get in our eyes. My mom would always tell us, “smoke follows beauty.” Once she declared that, we would all compete to see who the smoke was chasing.

I offered the coffee to my mom.

“Next time give me something sweet with it, maybe some cream, too.”