I blame myself. Or, okay, maybe Word Raccoon. Probably her. 

I knew we were spending the night at the hotel adjacent to the event last night. I knew WR and I would need caffeine the next morning. And yet, contrary to other trips, I did not pack a single tea bag. Nary a Coke Zero. I told myself instead that I would figure it out this morning.

The first hour or so after Word Raccoon and I were awake today, we were fine. We scrolled, we read, whatever. 

Then the “I need caffeine” headache came drifting in like fog. We had agreed to brunch. There would be coffee at brunch. WHEN WAS BRUNCH TO BE? 

We had hoped to sleep in. We hadn’t. 

We never do anymore. 

Barry slept on. 

No brunch until he was awake.

WR and I thought of getting dressed and locating a vending machine.

We thought of going downstairs and snagging a cup of coffee pre-brunch.

My head ached so badly by then that I couldn’t remember how to use the terrible in-room coffee maker, though the last time I stayed in a hotel with this exact same kind I did it just fine. 

WR chattered at me: “Remember how you always say you don’t think you have something, but if you look, “yesterday you” usually prepped, you just forgot?” 

I shook my head. “I don’t think I did this time.”

“Look. Just check,” she said.

I rolled my eyes and my fingers swept the zipper pouch in the suitcase.

“Wait…wait…what is this?” 

It was a tea bag. I rushed to read it in the light to see if, please God, it had caffeine in it. 

“Earl Grey!” 

WR danced a jig while I made a cup of tea.

Here’s the truth:

I always prefer tea to coffee.
I don’t even like coffee.
The idea of coffee? Yes.
The titles are fun: Americano, macchiato, cappuccino, Lavender Bee Buzz or whatever, and make me feel like a worldly sophisticate. (Ha! I am well traveled and, I’d like to think, reasonably well educated, but I have actively worked against being “sophisticated.” That smacks of pretension, and the pretentious cannot be artists. Not open-hearted, full-throated artists.)

The jolt of coffee is unmatched. So I drink it.
But it’s murky. It’s thick.

It leaves a film. It’s like having to strain oil in your mouth to get to liquid.  

It gets on my nerves, literally and metaphorically.

I am, at heart, a tea girl.

Simple black tea.

Unglamorous orange pekoe.

I wouldn’t kick Lipton out of my cup.

Occasionally the Earl himself, Mr. Grey, when we’re feeling fancy. But I’d make him wear a waistcoat. 

Herbal when we’re trying to live without caffeine or sleep within a few hours. 

At coffeeshops, however, I sometimes find myself ordering coffee because tea gets complicated with them. 

First, they seldom have tea with caffeine. Hey, if I’m going to have caffeine, it needs to be reliable, right? 

Their tea is usually gross. I despise cloves,the not-so-secret ingredient in most chai. Mint tea (which every place seems to have) may smell refreshing but it tastes like you’ve squeezed the juice out of boiled spinach right into a cup. Yum. 

Lemon tea can be fine, but it can also be laced with licorice. No thank you!

And then there’s ginger tea, which can either be mild or take-all-of-the-lining-out-of-your-throat strong.

Forget about the flowered nonsense. Flowers are for sniffing and staring at, not for drinking. You could always steam your face over a bowl of it, though.

Sometimes they give you a tea bag in a paper cup, no saucer, no stirring stick, and then you have to pry the lid back off to add sweetener, after you locate a stirrer. Then after it steeps, you need to find a spot for the tea bag. See above. 

It’s a PITA. 

I have on occasion brought my own tea bags to coffeeshops. Maybe that’s what I need to do again. (I’d pay for tea, of course, but I’d just use my own tea bag.) 

Iced tea is usually a safer choice.

Today, I was grateful for that tea bag in the suitcase, though I had to end up heating the water in the microwave. (Not ideal, but at least I’m resourceful.) 

Since it was the only tea bag tucked into the suitcase (Drema, you couldn’t have added a few?), I even attempted to make a second cup with it. Desperate times and all.

Brunch, by the way, was possibly tasty. Although why I ordered chicken and waffles, I don’t know. Waffles are great. Chicken is fine. But together? Why do we pretend that’s a match? Chicken’s flavor profile isn’t strong enough for waffles. It’s like bland and bland. One bland? Fine. Two bland(s)? Nope.

Even the honey butter does not tie the two together enough. 

I didn’t even think to ask for a waffle a la cart. 

Turns out, I lost my appetite midmeal anyway. 

You know, my posts should come with tone shift warnings. Maybe I should color code the different sections.

TONE SHIFT

Anyway…brunch talk turned to my sister. (Last night during the show I did end up crying during a song about Moses or something. But I was quiet enough to feel I could keep to my seat. Whew. I also laughed quite a bit, too. Am I a monster?) 

I am thankful that at brunch we were sitting at a window table and that my hair is long enough to strategically hide my face. I know grieving is natural. But I don’t want to make others uncomfortable, and I don’t want to answer questions when I’m just trying to breathe. 

Word Raccoon stood beside my chair with a pack of Kleenex, ready to run off anyone who wouldn’t take the hint. 

The chicken and waffles were sadly neglected. 

After, we planned to make a stop.

Let me say that I do not enjoy shopping at a certain discount store so frequently, but it’s across the way from the comic book shop, and I’d much rather shop there than stare mindlessly at comic books along with a certain comic book aficionado. Sorry. Some comics are fine. But in general, they’re just not my jam.

I shopped, but my heart doesn’t want anything right now. WR led me up and down aisles, picking up earrings (her favorite items), holding them up to the light. 

“See these coral flowers? It could be summer all year round.” 

I took them from her hand and put them back. 

She tried to convince me to buy several other pairs. I didn’t want any.

She tried on these really well made, gold-plated bracelets. 

“You know we rarely wear gold,” I said. 

Sweaters? 

No. Not snuggly enough.

Makeup? 

From here? I don’t think so.

Purses? 

Is that pleather? 

Shoes?

Stop it!

I still had time to kill, so I wandered back to the inexpensive, kitschy art. 

I had been thinking about my sister, Cher the whole time. Little things like, she would’ve liked those pj’s, or, when was the last time we’d gone shopping? So my heart was aching. 

In the art section, I saw a terribly tacky guinea pig painting. It was clutching a toilet paper roll. 

I have no idea why, but I laugh-cried and held it to my chest. 

I didn’t buy it. But I wish I had a real guinea pig. 

Then I spied a painting of a raccoon. A bartending raccoon. 

Word Raccoon had that thing in the cart before I could say no. 

“Fine,” I said, “But only if I can paint earrings on it.” 

Any other day, I would’ve said no. It’s pretty hideous. See? I’m going to have to hide this in my writing room. Clearly this was grief bought.

There were all of these other paintings of Santa. He seemed so warm, you know? That counts for something, and I wanted to hug Santa. 

I know I will survive this. 

That’s the thing: humans are assholes, because we can love someone, but we can also survive their loss. We can lose multiple people we love, and yet we grieve and move on eventually. Because we must.

I told my son the other day that humans are much stronger than we think. 

I know it’s necessary, surviving a loss. I know it’s natural. But it also sucks. 

So I strolled through the art section today, overwhelmed by the circus of colors. 

And then I saw the art supplies. 

Oh, fuck. 

Why hadn’t I bought Cher more art supplies? (I bought her lots.) Why hadn’t I convinced her to keep drawing, painting, whatever might stave off the pain? 

WHY DIDN’T ART SAVE HER? WHY CAN’T IT SAVE EVERYONE? 

I broke down, sobbing from aisle to aisle like an idiot, trying to breathe through it. One poor shopper left an aisle I was crying in. I don’t blame him. 

The mugs. With filled eyes, I fixated on the mugs, wanting every one of them for a moment. Together, the colorful mugs seemed like a Christmas tree full of color, and I almost filled the cart with them. I wanted to do something absurd. 

When I was able to focus on them, really see them, there wasn’t a single one I wanted. They were all poorly painted and badly molded. A Christmas tree with the dabs of paint beside, not on, the raised ornaments on the tree. A birthday cake shaped mug. What would I do with that?

I went down the spice aisle, picked up caramel sugar, some mango pepper. IDk what mango pepper tastes like, what to do with it, but at that moment, it seemed important I get it. 

I’ve never bought caramel sugar before. But they both seemed like must haves. 

I had a statement prepared in case anyone asked what was wrong: “I had a loss last week. I’ll be fine. I’m just tender,” in case I broke down again.

Then I ran into the huge tins of Christmas cookies on the shelf. One found its way into the cart. 

Eventually, we went home.

Once there, I try using the heater on the porch so I can still write out here, though I miss the sun. 

It works. It’s not hot, but warm enough. 

Maybe I’ll have to bring my Happy Light out here on sunless days. (There’s supposed to be sun tomorrow. Yay!)

I can be on the porch longer this season. Thank god. 

The tears will lessen. The ache will soften. It just takes time. And I don’t want to forget her. I just want to accept that she’s gone, but also remember that she was here. 

That’s it. I have no words of wisdom, nothing profound to say today. No cute stories. Opposite. I’m just on the porch. I’m writing through this. I’m writing. I’m still here. 

I hope that’s enough.