Conversation

@FrostPoem I'm dreaming of Cinnamon coffee. The thick, dark, spicy fragrance is so strong it is filling my room, filling the house. In my dream I see the tall, thin, glass mug I liked best and which I broke in grief and anger,. its elegant foot, it's delicate handle. The deep brown liquid caresses the clear glass, white krema bubbling on its top. Taking up the mug I inhale deeply, then sip. The drink flows down my throat: hot, bittersweet and subtly spicy. I feel a wave of almost unbearable pleasure and sadness mixed. It didn't happen! It's all a nightmare. How could it have happened if I'm holding this particular mug, smelling this particular smell. No one can make it like he could. I awaken with a start and reach out in the empty bed for the one who isn't there. The aching tide of despair threatens to engulf me again. I get up and wander into the kitchen. Cold kitchen, bare kitchen. I stand by the window and gaze into the garden before turning to my coffee machine. Then I stop in astonishment. Beside the pot is a dusting of grounds, a light smere of cinnamon. Drawn in the powdery grains is an unbroken circle. I fill the pot and turn on the grinder feeling slightly comforted. He isn't gone, not altogether, He's watching me. AS I take my first sip of cinnamon coffee I send him my heartfelt thanks and blow a kiss. the ones who love us can never truly leave us. #AMWriting #WritingCommunity