For about the last ten years (yup, that long), I have been having coffee on Friday mornings at 7:00 a.m. with my sister, Patty, and our brother, Brad. Others have joined us at various times, but it has been the three of us for many, many years. I'm not really sure how it all started, but I'm sure Brad would tell us if he could. He always remembered the details. It was sporadic at first, but then we grew to enjoy and value that time together. Meeting after work wasn't a possibility - too busy and messy with schedules. But, we could all agree that getting up earlier one day a week wasn't too much of a commitment. If we were unable to attend, we would oftentimes reschedule for a Thursday. Our coffee time was important and became a routine that was necessary for reasons I am only now beginning to understand.
We shared our coffee time idea with friends and family. Others would often comment on what a wonderful idea it was, and that is was something they would like to do with those they loved. The baristas knew us by name much like in the Cheers song. When we would show up on off days, they noticed and would remark on our change. Other customers, who often frequented at the same time, would nod in recognition in our direction. We'd exchange conversation about the weather, and often it felt as if we were our own little family . . . a coffee family.
We weren't always afforded the same seats, but we had our preferred ones. We shifted after each remodel, ultimately finding our favorite. Patty and Brad would sit on one side - I would be across from them, with my always large purse sitting in the fourth chair. I can see them. I can see Brad leaving (he always left first). He would push the door, look back, smile, and nod, as Patty and I would delight in reminding him of how much he was loved. I remember his face on December 11th - a pause and smile and nod, and the last time I would see him. "I love you" were my last words to him. Brad died on December 12, 2016.
But, this blog isn't about the loss of my brother . . . or is it? All I know is that having coffee with Patty and Brad built relationships beyond that of siblings. We knew each other as people, as adults, as parents; we shared, teased, laughed, cried, and loved. Patty and I continued the tradition after Brad passed, always missing him, always looking at his spot. Sometimes we sensed his presence, heard his laughter, and knew that things were forever changed. There hasn't been a week since his passing that we don't cry during our coffee time.
However, today that coffee door closed. I'm moving in a week and can no longer have coffee on Fridays with Patty. We knew the significance of today long before we sat down to talk. It was like saying goodbye to Brad again. We cried before we spoke. Not the pretty cry, but we cried tears that released hurt, fear, and such sadness. Brad was there - he was smiling. He never understood, but loved, the way the women in our family are quick to our teary emotions. We were able to express how very much this simple act, the simple cup of coffee shared, changed who we are.
Just as we had decided that it was time to leave, I had a light-bulb moment (maybe it was Brad providing levity) - "Hey. I'm available for coffee next Thursday. I don't leave until Friday. This isn't our last coffee, next week is." We belly laughed through tears - always my favorite emotion. It was OK to leave, to close this door. Walking out, we talked about "coffee in cars" - our new tradition. We will talk to each other on Friday mornings on our way to work. So, Friday coffee will look different; another door is opening, and a simple cup of coffee can make all the difference.
