It’s Sunday, but I have no one to bring a coffee.
For the first time in 16 months, my husband wasn’t beside me when I woke up. The pandemic has made certain things very predictable; we were always home.
After spending 493 days together, my husband and I have some deeply ingrained rituals.
Every weekday morning, my hubby makes his coffee and my tea and brings it to our bedroom; as he places it on my bedside table, I mutter a sleepy “thank you.”
On the weekend, I am the one to make his java and my Tetley’s.
Yesterday, for the first time since March 2020, Chris got on a plane without me. Lingering in bed wasn't appealing today.
I am at the cottage with my mother - she has become the beneficiary of our marital routine. How could I not put on the coffee this morning? It’s ready and waiting for her when she rolls out of bed.
Miss you, Chris, I love you and the smell of your Starbucks.
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