Just Another Weird Thing

Tomorrow morning, I’ll get up, go downstairs, and make a pot of coffee.  I’ll ground beans out of this bag and, like I have dozens of times, I’ll look at the name Zeledon and like it.  The name Zeledon.  I like it.  It’s the birth surname of one of my kids.  Zeledon.

Every day, it’s the same.  I make the coffee.  I look at the name.  And I wonder if my Zeledon is related to the coffee farmers. 

And then I wonder if he looks at the name on the bag of coffee and wonders if he’s related to the coffee farmers.  Oh, we kid about it.  We all stand around in the kitchen and talk about how we should go back to Nicaragua and find his rich relatives.  But what I wonder is — does he think about it, like I do, every day.

Is there a connection?  Who are the coffee Zeledons?  Is it just a coincidence or a sign?  Is the coffee there to remind us or lead us somewhere?  Or is it just coffee.  Probably.

After all, there are Snyder Pretzels and that never led my husband anywhere.

It’s hard and not always worth the trouble to sort out what’s weird from what’s meaningful.  Even harder to distinguish what would capture my preoccupation if I was an adopted person from what my kids actually worry about. I can’t be in their place or see the world through their eyes no matter how much I read or think or talk to them. 

Which is fine.  Because they have no idea I’m preoccupied with the coffee.  And buy it even though I like Layton Avenue Market’s special blend better.  It’s all about the name.  Zeledon.