Jarring dreams or bright sunlight, goddamn DST, pulled him from sleep. Some days it was simply unconditional surrender to a day of costumed to-do lists. Other days it was origami memories neatly folded and tucked into the present.
The face on the nightstand clock was useless. It was always the same time. Why look, the reality was clear, there was nothing to accomplish today or any day for that matter.
Duvet swung right, feet pushed left and planted on the floor. 38 steps to the kitchen embedded in memory. Each day this repetitive genesis yielding to nothing matters.
It was a loft in a condo and only 1,900 square feet. The 38 steps were not far or difficult. The ever-present slip and broken hip gave each step an imagined Olympic degree of difficulty. If he is going into the darkness of death it would be on his terms not a broken hip. The smoothed and time darkened hardwood floors added an exclamation mark of attentiveness. Gentle supportive braille like touches of walls or a doorframe edited his fear.
38 steps in the dark half the year. Muted morning light the other half. Feeling for the light switch on the wall, tapping the switch to softly illuminate the dinning room table. Never fumbling to find the switch yet struggling to wonder why it mattered. Mark knew where everything was, dark or not. The switch on the espresso machine was toggled and rumbled to life breaking the morning silence.
Six years ago the alarm was forever silenced. Now it was the Sun or harsh memories invading fitful sleep. The 38 steps became interminable and lonely. He still longed to reach for the stainless steel pitcher ready to froth milk for Donna’s latte. Then sit in the living room waiting for the machine to reach temp while reading his phone. The last six years it was take a pee, return to bed, and pretend there was something anything in his life.
Yesterday the 38 vapid steps became a finite exercise defined by the letter the letter that arrived two days ago now glaring at him from the polished stainless steel island. It was time.
The espresso grinder screamed to life filling the basket with the sweet smelling aroma of Italian beans. The cheap plastic tamper pushed the grinds down with just the perfect amount of pressure. For fuck sake that is heart and soul of espresso, the grind, the tamp, and a fairly expensive espresso machine. Voila the crema.
Thirty years of espresso making without a thought allowed Sundays when Donna was alive to permeate the day. Sunday’s were days of ignoring Mondays. Living in the moment. Celebrating a home cooked meal and wine. He half smiled remembering this pebbled sized joy. The memory stung, a little less, these many years later. Stung just the same. Hard to quantify stung. It just was.
Donna was a latte soul. A stainless steel pitcher selected to hold and steam the perfect amount of whole milk to fill Donna’s beloved oversized latte cup. The latte cup made one Christmas in a pottery pop up store with some cave like drawing of Nina her beloved Westie and an angel. Glazed in blue.
Steaming the milk orchestrated that welcomed high pitched whooshing and sloshing motion. The soprano scream announced the morning. Not too much foam just hot. A slow perfectly executed steamed milk pour into the cup so the creama rose to the top of the milk. Mark would carry the cup to the red chair where Donna and Nina, the Westie, sat. Her eyes would look up with a squint knowing what was coming.
“What?” Mark said sharply
Donna in an ever so slight tilt of the head said, “And what did you create today?’
“Why are you always so skeptical.”
“Me? Never! What would make you say that?”
“Simple, you never recognized the images I make in the foam on your latte.”
“Okay”. “What did you ‘create’ today?” Donna said surrendering to the cup.
Placing the steaming cup just below her face and tipping it slightly. One hand holding the cup steady and the index finger on his other hand he points to the foam.
“Look, You see it?” His finger slowly circles above the foam. “That’s a tree with the moon behind it.” Mark smiled.
Adjusting her glasses with a finger on the bridge. Donna looked closely at foam and tilted her head slightly to the left in feigned thought.
“No, that is milk, espresso, and someone who is brain dead. It’s not a tree and the moon. Good try as always. You make shit up and try and sell it. Go away I am not awake.”
Mark smiled as always when he thought about that. Such a little moment painted in meticulous watercolor brush stokes where the color did not obscure the 30 year old paper. The majority of memories he tapped into evoked an audible ‘Donna’ as he walked the loft. He heard her. He always did. Did the neighbors hear him?
Enough he said to himself softly while replaying Donna’s favorite line, “There’s a reason they call it history. It happened then”. Thinking it was then—wasn’t it?
Then, filled the days. Then, defined the days. Then are the moments frozen in the emotional amber of grief. Tomorrow’s then’s are cataracts, cloudy at best. Donna’s not coming back. He found comfort knowing he could join her anytime he chose. Based on the letter in his hand it seemed sooner rather than later.