Before it Gets Cold

Every day starts the same.

Perhaps I’m rigid, very routined, or maybe this is normal–it’s hard to tell.

It’s difficult to see life when you’re in the aftermath.

It’s 6:43am and the sun has broken from the horizon, and it’s keeping your plants warm. I try to water them, I really do, but I forget most days. They live on anyway, resilient as you were—determined as you were.

I need to go grocery shopping, but it’s hard when you don’t remind me. I’m down to milk that’s best-by date passed three days ago, but it smells fine, and only the top pieces of bread—you hated those, so I ate them instead. I don’t know why I pull the milk out, I like my coffee black. I put it on the counter next to the pink matcha set you bought. For a while I stare at it, looking where the pink paint has chipped from wear. The lavender syrup is half empty beside it, the lid crusting from the sugar crystallizing at the top.

You always liked your drinks too sweet.

The cat flipped her bowl again this morning, her famous indication for more food. It used to make you giggle when the ceramic hit the floor. I turned to face you when it happened, to ask you to fill it, but there was only the indentation in the bed where your body had been. So I trudged down the stairs and filled her bowl, the little creature purred and rubbed against my legs.

She sleeps on your side of the bed.

She prefers the pillow you put between your legs–halfway down the bed.

I fill the other cat’s bowl while my coffee brews and he chirps to me happily as the food clings against the glass.

When I start your car, he runs to the front door, waiting for you to walk in.

It’s sweet that he greets us.

I walk past my teapot, and the counter is stained, you always scolded me for making a mess. Sometimes I spill the tea on purpose, hoping you’ll come and yell at me for it. Sometimes I wait for it to dry and I try to wipe it away–the fact that it stains reminds me you were right.

You were always right.

When the coffee is done, I pour it into my cup.

I’m careless about it, and it sloshes out the side of my mug.

It was your mug, and in college I stole it because it reminded me of you when we were apart.

You thought it was lost until I came home and I presented it with a chip in the lip and you laughed–you couldn’t believe I took it.

I go to the sink and wash my hands.

The soap is far too fancy for me–one of the many silly purchases you made.

The lavender scent is so fragrant as I rub my hands together, the evidence of my spilled coffee pouring down the drain.

Evidence that you didn’t tell me to be more careful.

The washer is beeping now, but I don’t feel like moving the clothes.

I’ll get them after I’ve had my coffee.

I made the bed how you liked it today–all of your pillows in that meticulous order you liked.

I keep the blankets I complained about at the foot of the bed–the cats like them.

When 9:05 rolls around, I expect you to come running down the stairs, your jacket undone.

I ask if you’re running late, and you always say no, but we both know you are.

I wait for you to run out the door, forgetting your wallet like you always do.

I wait.

I wait until I remember my coffee, it’s cold now.

I dump it and try again, and I use the flavored beans that I hated.

They smell nice as I grind them down.

The milk is still out.

I wait again for my coffee as the cats chase each other around.

I think about coming to get you, to have you watch them with me.

But I don’t.

When the youngest gets bored, he jumps on the dining room table staring at me with wide eyes.

I smile at the thought of you telling him to get down.

I wait for you to do it, but you never do.

For a moment, I consider telling him to get off the table, but he’s slowly blinking at me.

Instead I pat his back and he meows at me.

When I look past him, I see your computer is still on.

It needs an update.

Your YouTube is still open, the covers you like all waiting to be played again.

I listen to them from time to time and picture you singing along as you type.

Your keyboard lights up as the other cat jumps onto it–the lights always bothered me at night.

I watch her as she rolls around on your mat, as if she’s trying to get your attention.

I walk over to her, petting her soft belly as I stare at the notification that never ceases.

I know you would have clicked later, so I do the same.

Later.

It’s when I’ll do the laundry, when I’ll move your blankets, when I’ll have my coffee, when you’ll be back.

I can see myself in your monitor when it turns back off.

My facial hair is grown out, you hated kissing me with it.

I should shave.

Later.

The coffee machine beeps and I turn to it, trying again to pour myself a cup.

The milk is still out.

So I grab your favorite mug and I place it beside it.

The crystallized sugar of the lavender syrup snaps as I unbottle it.

The honey is mostly solid, so I squeeze as hard as I can into the mug.

The coffee goes in next, but I only fill it halfway.

The milk goes in last.

You always liked your drinks too sweet.

I put your mug opposite of mine at the dining room table, but I know it’s going to get cold.