Visiting the Dead

A short while back I got a job in a coffee shop called Wake the Dead working for a good friend and with a group of creative and interesting people.  My co-workers are fun and our customers, for the most part, considerate and friendly.   All in all, being at work is a mix of fun customer service, learning the craft of good coffee (harder than it sounds), and a list of tasks to fill the rest of the time.  There is no "down time," only sweet distraction.

It is difficult for me to be alone, for up through the stillness creeps my grief.  It's always waiting in the wings, like a migraine or an understudy, eager to be allowed to make it's appearance- to have my full attention.  I know that this time and space for my grief is also necessary, and I sometimes crave it.  (Grief itself has a rank sweetness that some of us would drink like wine until we are laughing and crying, before we are finally able to fall into a dreamless sleep of exhaustion.)

Weekend mornings I get to work at 5:30am, and am alone in the quiet for not quite an hour.  At first it was very hard to figure out how to deal with all the sobbing and flashbacks at the beginning of my work day.  There was not enough coffee brewing and arranging of newspapers in the world that could take her off my mind, so I put on a favorite album of hers.  I still cried a lot, but it was nice too, in it's way.  The next day I put on the same album.  I cried some more, but I sang too, and loud.

The following weekend, after thinking about how much Mom would have loved that I worked in this shop, and the thousands of cups of coffee we must have enjoyed during our time together, I poured two cups of coffee.  I made hers extra sweet and creamy, and mine the way I like it.  She was visiting me at work.  I thought about putting on that same album, but I could almost hear her complain bitterly how she was tired of it.  (She was never fond of being overly sentimental.)  Instead, I silently talked to her about everything that had been going on; what it's like at my new job, how we are planning a trip for the fall, and how much I miss her but am trying so hard.  When we were done I said goodbye and washed her cup, but it's sort of our thing now.  Now I like to open the shop in the wee hours of the morning having coffee with my mom.  I put on some music I think she might like.  At the expense of sounding crazy, except that I can't hug and kiss her, it's like she's there with me.

There is some strange magic in love that is made of eternity.  I don't know how else to explain it or even what I mean.  Words, as usual, are insufficient in matters such as these.
When I am in the garden, I remember my mom's spirit and how we are all a part of everything.
I write in a special journal if I want to send her a letter,
and now we have coffee every weekend.


P.S.   This is my grief at 9 months and 20 days