Food

I always miss you, and I’m always thinking of you, but I think it’s the quiet little moments when I miss you most. So many of them are food related. I find that extra annoying because you cared so little about food, and yet it’s an important part of life. Probably once a week I remember your food list - all the foods you wanted to eat before surgery since you didn’t know when you could have solid food again. My heart shattered again when I found it in the notes on your phone and I saw all the things you didn’t get to have. At least we got those burgers at MJ’s before we went to the city.

The big days are hard. The tiny, some would say insignificant, moments hit harder. Maybe it’s because everyone expects that I’ll need support on our anniversary. No one realizes I need support while I’m watching my frozen lunch rotate around the microwave. The same lunch I sent you to work with often, chosen for its protein and vegetable content. The same lunch I don’t have to buy multiples of anymore.

I was surrounded by love and light and help the weekend of your celebration of life, but I still had to get myself breakfast. That morning, even though I go to Dunkin’ all the time, I kept thinking about how I still know your orders. I wondered what donut you would want that day. Blueberry? Glazed chocolate? Boston kreme? I ate mine on the couch with Bacon as he tried to steal my entire breakfast. My heart ached with the thought of how he would never try to steal your food because he knew better than to mess with you. And he’ll never get the chance again.

Last week, I tried to eat a swiss roll from the pack I bought you when your tongue started healing during chemo, but they expired the day you passed away. I stared at the package for a long time, then put it back in the cabinet and slowly went downstairs. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I kept thinking about how I wanted to tell someone about the terrible irony. I decided not to, til now, because I couldn’t find the words to explain how fucking sad it was. Your favorite snack, completely unopened, sitting in the pantry just waiting for you to get home.

I can’t see or hear about swiss rolls without remembering our stupid inside joke about them, though. I couldn’t stay sad for too long that day. I have no clue how it started, but we had a bit where I would have to spread a swiss roll on a slow feeder mat so you wouldn’t wolf it down. I never actually did, but we joked about it every time swiss rolls came up and every time we went to the pet store. I like to think I would have actually bought one of those and brought it to the hospital when they let you start eating again just to make you laugh.

Your sense of humor is impeccable. Even the on-call doctor said we could sneak in some Baja Blast for you when you were allowed to drink again; she said no to putting it in the NG tube but the fact that you asked made her laugh pretty hard. In the chaos, the deep, awful confines of this grief, at least I have these touchstones.

How were you able to find such levity amidst the horror? Can you keep teaching me, even though you’re on the other side? I have to remember all the joy you brought into the world, the light you gifted me and everyone who had the pleasure of knowing you. I miss you terribly, and I will love you forever. I hope I’m making you proud by trying to remember the good.