Dawning

Eva sat out under the open Shetland Island skies. The sun had already been on the rise for a couple hours, climbing steadily into the brisk chill of the end of the Scottish winter. Eva sat huddled up with her steaming flask of coffee and waited.

Shortly before 9 o’clock, she began to see it. The night’s moon began to edge its way across the great face of the sun in an unfolding solar eclipse. It had been years since this had occurred here. Shetland’s northernmost nature placed it in the shadow of a large, very nearly total, eclipse. Meanwhile, the rest of the Kingdom could still see their feet. Eva looked down at her feet – more darkened by the shadow of the moon with every passing minute. At 9h42 the moon caused the sun to wink at Eva before slowly unveiling its great face again. She smiled up at the warmth of the full sun. March 20. The vernal equinox had dawned.

Demeku arose early with the light of dawn. A sense of excitement and anticipation vaulted her from slumber into the first day of harvest. Months had passed since the last truck of parchment left for Addis and it seemed an eternity ago. She was more than ready for the hard yet rewarding work of the coffee harvest to begin. This day came only once a year.

Demeku had an awareness that not everyone could carry the privilege of harvesting the red cherry in the birthplace of coffee. This responsibility rested on the shoulders of her and her people alone. She carried this like a mantle into the forests and fields around Jimma.

Aino awaited the holidays with the poise of an octogenarian and the anticipation of a kindergartner – the Next Harvest Kenyan was coming to a close. He had just three cups left. But he had visions of the January Next Harvest arriving in his stocking.

The elderly man felt like the years passed by more quickly with every birthday. In his 86th year, the seasons had twirled past him like the gems in a kaleidoscope being spun through the fingers of a child. With the seasons all out of whack and some summer days bristling with a wintry cold and Indian Summers bleeding into late November days, he thought that soon the only thing to set the seasons apart would be the arrival of his Next Harvest.

As Aino brewed his final cups of Panama, the Monsooned Malabar would roll in like the wet deluge announcing the advent of April.