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…
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