“Your memory has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.” ~ W.S. Merwin
I’m drinking Tim Horton’s coffee like taking a hit of memory.
Once, the man I love was alive, here, with me. We went to Tim Horton’s.
Now, the coffee tastes like that particular day and all of his kisses. Ordinary memories I could’ve forgotten find me falling into them since his arms are no longer available.
In less than two years, I became as addicted to Kevin as I am to the coffee I’ve been drinking for 40 years. Kevin became a part of my normal, my ritual, a thing that kick started, comforted and warmed me.
Any addiction is beatable, but one must have the craving for sobriety as strong as the call for one more hit. What if I don’t want to quit?
What if I want to drive through Tim Horton’s on random Thursdays, play Etta James and absorb memories like vitamins? What if I don’t want to move on?
I suppose that makes me like my friend’s son after she cut his hair. He screamed, “I want my yesterday hair!”
I want my yesterday man!
Don’t tell me there will be others; there are others. It’s like telling a boy his new short hair looks fine. Maybe it does, but he’s not yet identified with the new look. The change shocks.
The change. The loss. The shortness of our time together. Shocks. Me.
In my days, I move forward, take action and set my vision. With my head, I lean into tomorrow’s tape. In my heart, I still wait for yesterday to pass me the baton.
I wait. I look. I see the crowd. I feel the excitement of other runners. I’m ready. I look back and wait.
My hand stretches open as if Kevin could reach for me once again.
While I wait, I drink coffee. I summon my soul to save me from the place I really want to go—where my beloved lives. The place from where he cheers me on and on through the memories which hold the magic we once danced with and the passion that never dies.
Yes, the passion of my soul lives on like a fire that never goes out.