When I lost you, people would tell me about the things I would miss and the times I would inevitably think of you.
They would tell me of birthdays and holidays, or the big events in life.
And while all of that has been true, they never warned me about the little things.
They never warned me about coffee.
The smell of coffee brings me back to the better days, the days when that smell would fill the house. I miss those days; I miss them a lot.
I still remember how they faded away. How that sweet, cozy smell was replaced by one with a sting.
There were only small hints at first. The infatuating smell of wine would sneak its way in, becoming stronger and stronger.
And then at some point, there was a shift.
That intoxicating, harsh aroma filled the air. There was no avoiding it.
You only made coffee in the mornings for your drive to work.
Then it peaked. Liquor seeped into the walls.
It made you sick, it made all of us sick.
Then you gave in,
you gave up.
They served coffee at your funeral.
It made my stomach twist.
You would never make coffee again.
And I don’t think I’ll ever look at coffee the same way again.