Indeed- Coffee is a Love Language
When I started back to college for my midwifery degree, Rick and I were both stretched so thin, that every extra bit of sleep we could get was welcomed. This is when Rick started buying me a hazelnut mocha at the local espresso stand on his way home from work at six-thirty a.m. Just so I could sleep thirty minutes longer.
After I passed my state board exams and started my private practice, we were able to shift into a new normal that was less chaotic. However, one thing that remained the same was Rick’s sweet gesture of getting a mocha for me when he got off work. Without fail. If I were at the birth center attending a birth, he would show up there with mocha in hand because he knew how badly I needed the caffeine. Every time I saw him walk through the birth center doors, our eyes would connect, and I’d feel the familiar flutter in my chest. Always a smile on his face, as he simultaneously handed me my mocha and gave me a quick kiss. He had a knack for making me feel as if he didn’t want to be anywhere else at that moment, but with me. If I wasn’t too busy, we would chat for a bit and catch up. If I was in the birth room, he would leave me a note on my mocha cup telling me that I was loved and to have a good day!
For twenty years as our kids grew, Rick bought me my mocha without fail. My private practice was thriving, and I got into dog showing and working my Catahoula's, which was a lovely distraction from being a small business owner. Soon it was obvious we needed a place with acreage. On a whim I saw a beautiful log house in Snohomish on five acres. It was perfect! What Montana girl hasn’t dreamt about a barn shaped log house at least once? Within three weeks we were in our new place and thanks to Rick it didn’t take long for it to feel like “home.”
Moving into the log house was bittersweet for me. It was difficult for me to feel like it was our “home” since by now our kids were grown, had their own partners, and the girls had children of their own. I knew eventually we would make new memories and I would love the log house as much as the yellow one, but of course, it would take time.
The smell of fresh brewed coffee was the first of many things that made our log house feel like home. The smell of coffee became a sweet reminder of how much Rick enjoyed doing trivial things for me. A simple act that said so much: I was cherished and appreciated. He took great care to ensure that I always knew that. I remember waking up when we first moved in and as I started downstairs the smell of coffee would instantly give me the feeling of “belonging,” confirmation that we were right where we were supposed to be.
As I would round the corner in the living room, he would be sitting on the couch, ESPN on the TV and he would be playing on his phone waiting for me to get up. With his reading glasses resting on the tip of his nose, his blue eyes sparkled at the sight of me. He would say, “Good Morning Beautiful. How did you sleep?” I would go over to him and lean in for a quick kiss before going to the kitchen for my coffee. I am confident there were many times I was far from beautiful with my hair in a messy bun, mascara smeared, and worst yet, unhinging my jaw to take the biggest yawn ever. That saying “Love is blind” applies to Rick perfectly.
As time rolled on and we had been in the log house for six years, Rick made me coffee. Every single day. Somedays, he would follow me into the kitchen, and we would stand there together talking. It was a simple moment of enjoying each other’s company before he rushed off to bed. Sometimes, we would end up talking for hours and suddenly we would realize it was noon and he needed to go to bed. And other times, he would fall asleep on the couch and forget to make my coffee only to jump up when I came downstairs and run into the kitchen to make it, while apologizing profusely. Even with my protests, and words of reassurance that I could indeed make my own coffee, he insisted on making it for me anyway.
There were times that I thought I should cut back on my coffee consumption. But then my memories would float in and out, and I would smile as that feeling of comfort and contentment washed over me. I would see the hundreds of times Rick and I had talked over my first cup of coffee. No. Quitting was not an option. It was as much the ritual with my husband that my soul needed as it was the caffeine addiction my body needed. I loved those moments talking with Rick, the subject matter varied, but the sweet moments between us over a simple cup of coffee never did. Regardless, I never realized how important those moments with Rick were. Not knowing that someday they would provide comfort and a reminder of our love. To quit drinking coffee would put an end to my favorite part of the day. The truth is I could never stop drinking coffee, habit or not. It was so much more than just a cup of coffee. The simple act of drinking coffee became another one of those pieces that woven with the other memories through the years, created a beautiful tapestry of our lives together, for that I am forever grateful.
Coffee had become one of our love languages, and I wasn’t ready for it to end yet.
Unfortunately, after Rick died, drinking coffee without him became an act of angst and pain. In fact, it was so painful that eventually I couldn’t bear it any longer and stopped. Each time I emptied the old grounds, I thought of him. When I smelled the aroma of the freshly ground coffee, I thought of him. And every time I had the energy to pour a cup of freshly brewed coffee, I thought of him. To say I missed him terribly would be an understatement. The closest thing I can come to describing it was that my soul was missing a piece of it ever since I felt him ripping away from me. No, it was not as simple as missing him or pining over him, I felt it on a much deeper level.
Every time I sat alone drinking my coffee in silence, I thought of him, and I felt the gaping hole he left. I missed him so much. I had no idea how much I loved that man until he was gone. It was in those moments that I realized that my life had become a stark contrast to what it was only a few months ago. We had a house full all the time, filled with laughter and teasing one another with the grand kids running around squealing with delight. Now, nothing but silence. Now each of them in their own homes, trying to navigate their own grief the best that they could. There hadn’t been any laughter in a while, mostly tears. There certainly was no joy, or a feeling of contentment. They were sucked out of me when he took his last breath.
I swear the longing for him grew with each sip and before long the memories would flow, along with my tears. I would stand there, alone in the kitchen of our new home in Texas. The one he never got to live in, feeling cheated that we never got to even start our last chapter, even though we did everything right to get him retired early. I felt robbed, for both of us. I was unsure, fearful of this new life that had been forced upon me without my consent. With each sip of the hot bitter liquid, the bitterness where my heart used to be grew bigger and blacker.
I would stand in the kitchen like we had done a thousand times together, except this time I was alone, missing a piece of me. The man who showed me what it meant to be a good partner. The one who taught me the simple ways we show one another we are loved, was ripped from me in a way that threatened my sanity on most days. The silence became louder as the days drug on and on. Eventually it was deafening as if it were screaming at me, “Rick is dead. You need to get used to it!”
Over the course of a few weeks, the pain of drinking coffee alone caused me to stop making it. I couldn’t even drink it in the kitchen. One day, the silence became too loud, and, in a rage, I threw my full cup at the wall with all of my might and screamed like a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. My scream was so loud, I didn’t even hear the coffee cup smash as it shattered against the wall. Once I had calmed down and caught my breath, I cleaned up my mess and walked out of the kitchen swearing to the heavens I would never ever make coffee again.
I started going to Starbucks and getting an Americano on my way to work. On the weekends, I would go through the drive through and grab a cup and sit in my driveway slowly sipping the bitter brew, often wondering how I got here. I simply couldn’t bear the ritual of grinding the coffee, making it, and then drinking it without him, it was all too much for me to bear.
However, old habits die hard and eventually I went back to the ritual that once gave me so much joy. I started making my own coffee a year after Rick died. At first, it was difficult, and I would still cry as the memories of his smile and our laughter over coffee flooded my mind. Over time, day by day, the pain subsided. There are still times that I cry over a good cup of coffee. I cry for the tragedy of it all, I cry for him because he suffered a loss, too. I cry for my grown children and their children, and I still cry over the way our epic love story ended. Somedays when making my coffee, I pause as a sweet memory of him drifts in and out of my mind. I see his sparkling blue eyes, his crooked grin, and I swear I can even hear his voice softly saying, “Good Morning beautiful.”
My breath catches as a sad smile plays upon my face up.
The tears do occasionally spill out onto my cheeks, most days I smile, now with the knowledge that I got to experience a love most only dream of and for that I will be forever grateful. I knew how much that man loved me because it made him happy to make my coffee for me. A simple gesture that spoke volumes to my soul, without me even being aware of it.
Yes, coffee indeed is a love language and Rick was fluent in it.