Kitchen Sweets

He always has some sort of sweet sitting on his kitchen countertop.

And each time I’m there I make sure to take a peak at which new delight he has picked out for that week. Coffee cake seems to be a reliable favorite. It reminds me of my granddad.

Sometimes he’s very pleased with his purchase and sometimes he says, “it was terrible.” I look up from the counter in time to see the disappointment on his face. I’m not sure why but something about the way he so seriously expresses his disapproval and judgement over baked goods makes me laugh.

But I guess that’s what happens when you try something new; the risk you take.

It’s a tiny little home; quaint and sweet. Many things crowded in a small space but everything has it’s place. This is where he stays while his life sorts itself out.

The neighbors are kind and everyone loves his dog. You’d love him too if you met him. His eyes are human-like. Sometimes I just stare at his face and watch him morph into a person right in front of me.

We sit outside and watch the neighborhood with no where to go. I slouch all the way down in my camping chair and lean my head back until it rests somewhat comfortably on the back lip of the chair. I look up at the tall trees overhead, swaying and I begin to feel my pulse slow it’s pace. A calm, hypnotic wave washes over my body. I’m sober, but nowadays I feel high with nothing in my system except for old outlines and shapes of past trips. I carry them with me now. It’s the same world in front of me, but it looks very different. It glows. It shimmers. It has a fantastical quality about it that I never saw before.

We start chatting and making jokes about our futures. We both have a fondness for Ireland. He begins painting a picture of his new wife, an Irish lassie with a gift for churning butter. They meet at a local pub and he falls for her strong arms and endless supply of whipped dairy.

We laugh a lot together. Sometimes his laugh appears as though he’s surprised it has come. Like the joke came from somewhere he wasn’t aware of and my approving laughter allows it to keep growing until we are both stuffed full and happily content as our chuckles die down.

Tears are flowing now as I type this and these words blur in and out of focus on my screen. I feel the wetness roll slowly down my cheeks. A droplet reaches my chin and gathers weight before breaking into a free fall towards my lap. My eyes sting with emotion. He is leaving town soon. And I will miss him. Not with longing, but with sweetness and gratitude. With fondness and a soft smile, like the one I know I will make after he’s gone and I find myself drifting into a memory. I will thank him for being a teacher, a friend, a lover, a muse, a supporter and a peer. For his honesty and vulnerability. For having the courage to just be himself. To say what he’s thinking right when he thinks it. That was such a gift for me to witness, being someone who has held back those things for most of my life. All of these treasures I will carry with me close to my heart. We are forever connected now. There is an invisible chord made of cosmic fibers that binds us. My dear friend, when you tug on this chord, I will feel it. As I know you will feel me too.