Pondering…Death, Guilt and Coffee
At 12:22am, on February 05, 2020, I became a widow. A pounding on my front door at 2:00am notified me of this. My writing tonight comes from an empty soul, this loss so new that it is still surreal.
We started with coffee…
I was single mum taking her 11 year old boy to his first indoor soccer practice. Being me, I had planned the trip to the rec centre to swing by the coffee shop I knew was on the way, but this particular place no longer existed. No coffee.
Got to the facility, past the child over to the coach and went to the snack bar. It was open, but there was no one there. I waited a few minutes, then a few more.
I went roaming through the hallways, looking for someone, anyone, to man the snack bar long enough for me to get my coffee. I saw a reception-style desk at the end of a hall, with the top of someone’s head just visible over the top. As I approached, he looked up, and acknowledged my presence. He didn’t smile. He was gruff, polite, but throwing “back off lady” vibes.
I did smile, as I politely asked him if he knew where the snack bar attendant might be as I wanted to buy a coffee. He muttered something and stood up, first putting down his book (a real book!). I noticed the cover and knew the book and loved the author.
Without saying a word, he went over to the snackbar, let himself in and served me a coffee. He didn’t let me pay. He nodded, silent, and went back to his desk.
The following week, I dropped off my favourite book by the same author, just laid it down on top of that high front reception desk. Didn’t say a word to him, just left the book.
Over the next 16 Tuesdays, we got to talking and sharing…books, thoughts, life stories. We had strong similiaries — I was broken, he was broken. I had a fatherless son. He had a motherless daughter. He was really smart, very compassionate, loved music and animals, complex and complicated and we just gelled. Our first real date after the soccer season ended was for coffee.
We mutually nurtured this strange friendship into a logical marriage; loving but not “in love”. We talked through every possible relationship scenario, potential pitfall, benefits, and finally made the decision to merge our families into one. And it worked.
And with the start of each of my days, there was a coffee prepped, ready for me. On day shifts, he’d actually make it and bring it to me, in my favourite mug.
When he worked nights, he set it up before he left at 11:45pm. The sugar was in the mug, and my single serve drip coffee filter was ready on top. All I had to do was boil the kettle, pour the water through the filter and add cream. He did it because it was his way of showing me that he cared.
Ever single day for almost 14 years.
The night he died, he was running late. Not frantic late, but minutes late. He still took the time to prep my coffee. We went outside to switch the cars in the driveway, he kissed me, brushed my hair back behind my ear, hugged me and told me to have a good night. That was the last time I saw him.
The guilt? Maybe I should have pushed him out the door faster. Maybe if he had been on time, he’d still be here. Maybe I know that he settled for less than he deserved. Maybe if he had been “in love” with someone, his life would have been better. Maybe if I had been less selfish in letting him commit to an “us” that wasn’t perfect for him. Each maybe is a stab, a poison dart. It doesn’t change anything but seeps through me, and feeds both the anger and the emptiness. I don’t know what to do with this yet.
And the coffee he prepped, before leaving for work that night? It’s still sitting on the counter, a reminder of the caring and commitment made by one broken person to another. It’s the last gift from my husband.