On the plane I asked for decaf with breakfast. Not that I’d slept much – it’s midnight “my time” when we arrive, but 9am locally. That situation seems to demand coffee. But last time I took this flight I was pregnant, and remembered that I really liked that decaf – in part because it was freshly brewed for me. When the flight attendant came back with my cup, I heard her mention a powdered coffee brand to her colleague. My recently developed coffee-snob-ego wanted to get miffed, but even when I smelled it I knew why I liked it: this was the kind of coffee I used to have with my mom on the porch after coming back from school. I have so many good memories of us sitting and talking and having (powder-based) coffee.
We went downtown, and H was taking pictures of me with the Christmas decoration in the background. He wanted to try another angle (he’s serious about this) and asked me to look more relaxed and to smile. “I can’t”, I said. “I’m sad.”. He apologized and hugged me, I cried some, and eventually we moved on, at least in the literal sense. This is how many of my days go – I’m okay most of the time, and then something triggers a reminder of our loss, and I become so sad again, for a little while.