The scent of coffee draws me into the kitchen.
He’s standing at the counter, shoulders hunched, eyes down, fingers fidgeting as they clasp a favorite bowl.
“Looks like you’re planning cereal for breakfast this morning.” I comment as I reach for a coffee mug.
He glances my way and down again. “I can’t remember what to do next,” he mumbles.
“I’ve a new box of Rice Chex. You haven’t had that in a while. Shall I get it?” I avoid addressing his pause in memory of what to do next. That’s how I see them. Little pauses in his brain’s process when something familiar is suddenly unfamiliar. I set the empty mug down and slip around the corner to the pantry to retrieve the cereal. When I am back in his sight, he watches me open the box, slit the inner bag and hand him the cereal.
He takes the box and pours a serving in the bowl. His fingers are steady, his head up, shoulders back. The pause is over for now.
“I bought milk yesterday, it should be in the door.”
He folds the box liner down to seal it, closes the box, opens the cupboard and puts the cereal on the shelf with the other boxes. He grabs the milk, pours exactly the right amount into the cereal.
A moment later he’s settled at the counter, eating cereal, pills at the ready, and reading the paper. Just like other mornings. He reads me a snippet reporting on some odd thing a celebrity has done. We smile at each other in agreement at the antics of adults who should know better. For a moment the dining table in the kitchen isn’t empty but instead holds two of my favorite people, my partner and our daughter when she was about four.
We had a routine. I woke her up and helped her dress. He made her breakfast and drove her to preschool while I traveled to work. In my mind I’m standing in the kitchen, my hand on a biscuit he’s left on a napkin for my to-go breakfast. He’s telling her the funny story about his first effort making refrigerator biscuits. He tried to open the package with a can opener. Though she’s heard the story before and so have I, we can’t help laughing at his retelling. We picture his fingers stuck in the top of the biscuit package as he peels the gooey dough from a small opening.
I blink and time returns to today. The giggling four-year-old is grown, living a few miles away. The storyteller who laughed at his ignorance about refrigerator biscuits this morning could not remember what came next. I remember. I remember especially the laughter and the loving care he showered on our daughter.
He catches my eye as I stir my coffee. “Thanks for the cereal change. I was bored with the others.”
“I’m glad we had something new in the pantry.” I am glad. Glad the pause in knowing what came next was brief and easily fixed with cues. Glad he has a brain full of odd facts and after thirty-five years can still surprise me with something I did not know. Glad for his company on my life’s journey.