Monday Mourning

Monday Mourning arrives like a slow tolling bell, a somber ritual in a cup. Its aroma curls through the air, dark and full-bodied, a whisper of something lost, something remembered. This is no lighthearted brew—it is rich, deep, and unyielding, the kind of coffee that clings to the soul like grief that refuses to fade. The first sip is a requiem of bold, bitter strength, the taste of tradition steeped in shadow, heavy on the tongue like an unspoken goodbye.

There is a weight to this cup, a presence that lingers long after the last drop has vanished. The Bitterroot beans infuse each sip with an earthy depth, a reminder that even in mourning, there is solace in the familiar. It is the kind of coffee that demands to be savored, a moment of reflection in the stillness of dawn, when the world is hushed and the ghosts of yesterday press close.

By the time the cup is empty, the day has begun, the world calls, and the weight of Monday settles in once more. But the taste lingers, a final farewell that sits heavy on your tongue. Some wounds never heal. Some flavors never fade. And tomorrow, when the morning comes again, so too will the mourning.