Summer. I dislike it. Nine o’clock this morning I am awake, but motionless. Our gentle, orange tabby taps my face with is velvet paw. Already humid with incessant sun, the insects are tedious with their constant presence. I take my morning coffee indoors. Entombed in my closed, cool studio, I feel uncomfortable. No, it is not a lack of comfort – too superfluous – it is loss.
Thrown willy-nilly into a small box to be abandoned at the curbside. Three decades of champagne toasts and Christmas treats, countless drives along the dull, Pennsylvania interstate to share in a “sisters’ visit”, belly laughs, and silliness with midday trips pushing strollers laden with croissants and juice boxes along concrete sidewalks – now still.
Then, a decade of letting go, “keeping in touch” insinuating itself between us. Stealing intimacy. Sharing an occasional cafe seated at your kitchen table. Bon mots sprinkled generously along with the sugar.
I am not blindsided, dear friend, clutching the box of memories against my heart. I am, simply, bereft.