I washed my coffee pot today. I know, people give zero shits about the cleanliness of my coffee pot. I care though. Mostly because I don’t clean it often. My dad hated his coffee pot clean. He also hated his coffee mug and Yogi Bear spoon to be cleaned. He said that the coffee tasted better if brewed and consumed from a well-love pot. I agree.
It’s just every time I have to clean the coffee pot I’m forced to think of him. Not that I don’t think of him often, because I do, but it makes me think of him in a way that really makes me miss him. And missing him can be really hard at times. Really hard.
As I scrub the layer of paper sack tan haze I dream about having coffee with him. I can see him. He’s got on old Levis and white tank top tucked in, he’s fit and he’s healthy with his hair black as night and a fresh shave. He smells good. His oddly coiled key chain hangs from his belt loop and he’s standing in front of the pot preparing to pour. He’s happy and he’s reading a great book and as we drink coffee he’s going to tell me all the good details in such a way I will have felt I read it myself. Except I can’t remember the sound of his voice so my dream ends there. And it’s that part, his voice….that makes me miss him in a way that makes my chest feel full and heavy.
And I need to cry about it. My eyes are filled and I can’t put off blinking any longer. So I cry enough to empty my eyes.
Because holding it in and diverting my attention elsewhere doesn’t help the wound heal. I am super great at diversion. It’s a natural skill of mine. And when it comes to emotions…well, I’ve achieved a mastery level like no other. I am the damn Empress of Emotional Diversion! Well, I was. I demoted myself a while back. Now I just try to cry when a good cry is needed. When my dad died, I diverted for an entire year. I’m not proud of this in the least bit because in hind sight it’s fastened another year onto the healing and the healing is harder now because the wound is cavernous.
But I miss him. My life bears no resemblance to the life I had when we last touched. We both died that day. I just had the chance to stay here and start over. And I did.
I wonder what he thinks of my life, if he is proud, I wonder about the wisdom I’m missing out on because he isn’t here to share it with me. I wonder if my life would be THIS life had he not left this soil. And if I don’t stop all the wondering I will find myself in a place I don’t want to be in. So I have to stop.
It’s a balance. Remembering the past, wondering about a future of “what ifs” and being mindful of this moment. It’s a delicate set of scales.
Today I cleaned the coffee pot, I missed my dad, I let some tears slip out and I brewed a fresh pot. He has contributed to the woman I am, in ways other than the dimple in my chin and this big ass nose he gave me. He had gratitude. He taught me gratitude through his appreciation for nature and all things bigger than he. So, I’m glad I had him as long as did. I’m glad he loved me as much as he did and I’m glad he showed it.
I’m going to drink this cup of coffee and be grateful for having him instead of wondering what I’m missing without him. I have to keep the scales balanced.