May 19, 2015

How I used to Take my Coffee.

Divya Thakur/Flickr

I see him there, standing at the counter in his jogging pants, pouring hot water over the grinds in the French press.

The sunshine casts bright light near his slippered feet.

I pretend that I’m busy, lost in my book on the sofa under a woolen throw, and not attentive to what he’s doing.

He pours coffee into my mug, adds cream and brings it to me. I take it from his hand while he kisses my temple and strokes my hair.

I watch him as he casually saunters back to the counter, his hand lingering on my hair for just a moment.

I take a sip of the hot coffee and let it slide over my tongue, enjoying it because he made it for me more than for its bitterness.

I want to get up and stand behind him, put my hands inside his gray T-shirt and place them on his toned belly, lean into him and inhale his scent that appeals to me so much, kiss the side of his neck before I lay my head on his shoulder.

I want to turn him around so I can kiss his lips as he puts his arms around me while my hands are now on his naked back.

I want to step back and look at him, his handsome face and eyes that were inherited from the star people, and smile because his presence fills me with such joy.

I would do all of these things again.

But he’s no longer here.

I adored him and bade him farewell in the only way that I could.

I hear love songs differently now. I understand the pain of the songwriter because I have now felt it myself.

I realize that loss and heartache are a universal, often necessary, part of love. We cannot avoid either because the risk and the passion are worth the wreckage.

After all—

“I hold it true, whate’er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

‘Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.”

~ Alfred Lord Tennyson



I Remember All the Pain.


Author: Laura Ann

Apprentice Editor: Kristin Bundy/ Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: Divya Thakur/Flickr, flickr

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