I keep a jar of Maxwell house coffee that I’ve yet to open
and never intend to, unless in case of emergency.

The coffee serves a talismanic purpose, reminding me of
my grandmother, who brewed a cup every morning before
taking a bus from her shotgun-style house off Truman Rd
to her job sewing graduation gowns and funeral shrouds
for a company that, like all that muslin, has disappeared.

After retirement, she soon moved to another house,
one rented to her by by aunt, but still drank her one
cup of instant Maxwell every morning before switching
to iced tea and water for the remainder of the day.

I keep the jar, in case of emergency, and I may open it one
morning before going to my own factory.