Grief, Coffee, and Conversations That Never End
Still Sipping with Eddie
Every morning, Eddie and I had this sacred little ritual: coffee, news, and absolutely no deep conversation. Mostly because Eddie was not what you’d call a “morning person.” So we kept it light—just enough words to say “I see you,” but not enough to require full brain function. We’d sit side by side, sipping quietly, letting the caffeine seep in.
Now, as I drink my coffee, I find myself missing those easy, everyday exchanges. “I was just thinking that!” moments. The sentence-finishing, the eyebrow raises, the silent agreements. The kind of connection that doesn’t need a lot of words to feel complete.
To keep Eddie close, I talk to him. Not full-blown conversations – especially not before the coffee kicks in. I’m imagining that he’s still not a morning person, even in spirit.
I’ll say to him:
“Hey, Baby,” when I see his photo or feel him nearby.
“I love you. I miss you,” whenever the urge or ache hits me.
Sometimes I ask if he’s good with how I’m living this new life. A life that’s better because he was in it, and one I’m trying to shape in a way that honors both of us. And when I feel off course, I ask him what to do. In the quiet, I hear him. Not in a spooky way—just in that deep, familiar way.
Some people might call that crazy, but anyone who’s walked through loss knows it’s just another way to hold on to what was normal.
So, if you catch me talking to myself, don’t worry, I haven’t lost it. I’m just keeping the best parts of Eddie alive. Because love, laughter, and a little bit of crazy are the threads that stitch us together, even across the boundaries of this world and the next.
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