The cafe of the day is my kitchen table. It's the 4th of July, my family is visiting Grandparents in Louisiana, and I'm alone, in the quiet, to take a personal inventory, a life self-exam, which is very scary. The flavor of the day is Starbucks Tarrazu (a gift from Donna Zinn), which is superb—even though I got the grind wrong! Drinking from Andrée’s Rooster Mug (it reminds her of France), I feel like I have her close to me. Chuck Loeb is playing a great riff in the background (the house was too quiet!).
I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.
So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.
She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.
I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.
I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.
I was told to never drink after anyone, and by no means should I put my mouth to a water fountain. The warning always came with the tag: “You’ll get trench mouth!” As I got older, I realized that I never knew anyone who contracted trench mouth, so my best friend, John Wimsatt, and I started drinking out of each other’s glasses. There were no apparent side effects. My mother was still horrified. I’ve often wondered if she was more worried that I’d catch “Catholic”, which John was, more than any biological disorder. No trench mouth and I remain pretty firmly Protestant.
So I sip from Andrée's mug and think about having her close. Even when you aren’t fully engaged in a house with people, there’s proximity with them that is always, shall we say, “streaming”—to borrow a net word. The stream is broken when they leave. Like most mugs that belong to females, this one has been through the dishwasher but still has a slight remnant of her Revlon Coffee Bean #101 on the rim.
She’s tortured me with that lipstick ever since we dated. My first encounter with it in a personal way was just after I’d professed my love for her. Before making my 7:45 Greek class, I put a note on her car that read “Good morning Sweetie! I love you!” Later that day, I found a note under the wipers on my car. She had taken my note, blotted her lipstick on it in the shape of a kiss and wrote, “I love you too!” I went through a molecular destabilization on par with that of mutated superheroes. I still have that note.
I write this entry, I think, because my heart is preoccupied with the events of the past few days. A husband and father from our church, very much like me, buried his soul mate yesterday. He had tons of time to prepare for it, but how can you prepare for what it does to you when the house is too quiet? Would you still listen for the garage door to open as if she’s returning from the grocery? How does one ever stand at a sink again to brush your teeth or comb your hair? She was always there—either right there, or “streaming” somewhere around the house. What do you do with all the stuff? Her stuff? Everything you touch tells a story. The story of you, together. I wouldn’t get past the lipstick drawer for years.
I drink great coffee from a special mug, tainted with just a tinge of lipstick, a tinge of her. Our dog likes to lounge on an article of her clothing. The 3-year old wants to sit in her lap and touch a mole on her neck. I understand now. We need contact points when those we love aren’t around. We need them with God too. The patriarch, Jacob, needed some rocks at Bethel to remind him of God’s presence, a tangible reminder. My dog needs something from the dirty clothes. I need to put my mouth to a ceramic utensil that bears the imprint of my wife's lips. To do so is to have her here, with me in the quiet.
