It’s Sunday morning…

I should hear you happily humming as you walk down the stairs to start the coffee.

As I lay in our bed, I should notice the familiar sound of the beans grinding. 

Soon, the smell of coffee should be thick in the air. 

There should be music playing in the kitchen.

And, any moment now, my phone should ding and the screen should light up with

– your name.

Right now, you should be sending me my “Good Morning Beautiful” text message.

The familiar, heartfelt message you lovingly sent to me everyday

– whether you were on your way to work, or at home, in our kitchen.

You should be making coffee and texting me on this ordinary Sunday.

But, you’re not here…

 

 

 

The only day you missed texting me  “Good Morning Beautiful” was

November 15, 2016.

I knew something was wrong, and I was right.

And, nothing, not one thing, has really felt right since.

 

 

 

As I am typing this, we should be making bacon and eggs for breakfast.

I should be standing at the island cutting a roma tomato while you are contently

checking your emails on your iPad.

You should look over at me, 

And, slowly take off your reading glasses

– without taking your eyes off me.

Then, I should hear you proclaiming,  “Honey, what do you want to do today?”

As you listen to me talk about our plans, you should start making toast

– on your favourite plain, white bread.

I should be mentioning something about how thickly you are slathering the butter

onto the bread.

(But, I won’t because you aren’t here.) 

Right about this time, on cue, I should be squishing an avocado to see if it is ripe.

Like always, you’d notice things like this,

And, you wouldn’t be able to resist making some

goofy, off side comment.

And, now, in this moment,

I should be laughing because I can’t believe you actually said that thing to me.

 

My laugh should be filling the room, but instead I only hear the clock ticking.  

I’m not laughing because there is nothing funny

about the fact that this scenario will never happen again.

 

Soon, you should be calling out my name to excitedly show me something on Facebook.

So, now, in anticipation,

I stand and wait quietly

–  I hope to hear you.

But, where the sound of your voice should be there is only the hum of the fridge.

(You can not call out my name because you died.)

 

We can not make breakfast together anymore – except in my mind.  

So, this morning,

I fondly remember our Sunday morning rituals.  

And, I carefully bring you back to life as I go about making my own coffee.  

 

Sometimes, I feel like you are still very much alive in my mind.

My memories give you life.

You take form in them.

But,

Memories are not as fond when the other rememberer is no longer alive.

Now, my memories feel lopsided because you aren’t here to

relive them with me.  

 

I desperately miss our life together.  

I miss our daily rituals.  

I miss the nuances between us.  

I do not think the ‘missingness’ will ever go away completely

because you will always continue to be missing from me.  

Now, I will have to find a way to live while I miss you.  

I have to find a way to complete our unfinished life…

 

In my mind, we should be cleaning up the dishes now.  

I should be doing my makeup while you shower.  

We should be getting ready to go out into the world, but we aren’t.  

There is no ‘We’ anymore.  

There is only Me now.  

Life has profoundly changed.  

Instead of living my life with you, I am now writing about our unfinished life.  

Never in a million years would I have

thought this is what I would be doing today, but here I am doing just this.

 

~Staci