Coffee with My Mother: A Ritual of Grief and Love

Just when she was about to say how she was, I would appear in the doorway with a sad face. I didn't have to say a word. She would immediately look at me with those gentle eyes of hers, eyes that saw through my skin, and ask:

“What’s wrong, Sanja?”

I would just walk past her, trying to hide the weight on my shoulders, and say that everything was fine. But she didn’t believe those words. A mother always knows. She knows the silence of her child better than the child knows their own voice.

She would follow me to the door of my room and again, in a warm voice that melted my defenses, ask:

“Sanja, honey, what’s wrong?”

And I would say again: “Nothing, mother, everything is fine.”

And the truth was that it wasn’t. The truth was that everything was falling apart inside me, but I didn't know how to name the ruins.

I didn't need advice. I didn't need solutions. I just needed a little of her strength. I needed to sit next to her on that old sofa, to feel the warmth of her hand on mine. To snuggle up to her like I did when I was five, and she would cover me with that light blanket of hers and say: “Oh, you’re freezing, cover yourself, honey.”

And then she would look at me, deep into my soul, and quietly say:

“Tell mom everything, honey. You know mom loves you more than anything in the world.”

That sentence was the key.

Then I would break down. The dam would burst. I would cry so much that I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe from the tears, I couldn’t say a word. And she wouldn't ask anymore. She would just be there. She would get up, bring me a glass of water and some sugar to calm me down. It was her old remedy for everything—shock, sadness, fear. Sugar and water. Sweetness to counteract the bitterness of life.

She always knew what I needed, even when I didn’t know myself.

That was five years ago.

That sore throat from holding back tears is now my daily companion. Because she’s gone.

But I still imagine her. I have to. It is the only way I can survive the mornings.

I imagine she’s here. Like in a novel where the characters never really leave.

Every morning, I wake up in my house in France, far from where she is buried, and I make coffee. Two cups. I drink mine, and I imagine her drinking hers. We drink coffee with milk together, in the silence of the dawn. We pray to God and tell each other: “We won’t be afraid of anything, God is protecting us.”

I also have a little secret. A coping mechanism, perhaps, or maybe a spiritual truth. I tell myself that she’s with me. Not metaphorically, but literally. That she’s standing right behind me, protecting me with her invisible shield, and that no one can do anything to me because my mother is watching.

And somehow, when I believe that, everything becomes easier. The fear recedes. The loneliness lifts.

I don’t want her to be sad, even though I am. Because five years ago, at this time, I last saw her. I remember the hospital room. I remember how she sobbed in pain when her sister touched her. I knew the end was near. I saw it in the way the light was leaving her eyes. I didn’t sleep that night. I waited.

In the morning, at 5:45, the phone rang.

They told me she died.

That moment split my life into before and after.

That’s the reason for my tears and my silence. That is why I write.

But when it gets too hard, when the world feels too cold and too big, I ask her to hold me. I close my eyes and imagine sleeping on her shoulder, my head in her lap. I imagine her covering me with that light blanket, telling me I'm freezing.

To keep me warm until I fall asleep.

And in the morning, when I wake up, we drink our coffee together again.

My mother and I.

Like before.

Forever.