Innocuous Actions

The other day, you set up my coffee for me. It was the first time in a long time. You didn't realize that I had updated the auto-start by an hour, in the hopes that I would actually get out of bed that early. You commented on it, "Do you really want this set for 6:00 a.m.?"

I replied in the affirmative, and the next morning I reveled in the miracle that is coffee, brewed with love. The sound of the machine starting up; click, click, tsssss, drip, drip, dribble. A few minutes later, the scent of the 7 different flavors of coffee drifting into my room. I mix and grind it like you taught me; it's a delightful concoction of all the things I like best about coffee. And when I finally got out of bed, and poured my cup with cream and sugar, I felt loved and achy all at the same time.

The ache was in my heart, recalling a time when you refused to let a day pass without making my coffee. If you visited for lunch, you made it. If you came over in the evening, you made it. Sometimes, you would drop by just to make it for me. We had sweet rituals around it.

After a while, those rituals soured and we flexed and shifted. We removed the rituals, and the habit faded.

I miss it. Did you feel taken for granted? Was it too much pressure to perform? I want to ask you what happened, but it's just coffee. Why get twisted about it? Why? I applied meaning to your action. Making coffee =  making love. When you tapered off, I noticed. I did not remark, because life things were swirling all around and you say "I love you" in so many other ways.

It's never been just coffee to me, though. And, as I said, I miss this particular way that you have shown your love. I don't know how to bring it up, so I took the coward's way out and wrote it here.