I know you like to have coffee on the patio, but ours isn't covered and this Texas heat is too much for you to bear.
The sun room is fine though. The light shines through with great hope, the coolness of the indoor air is refreshing, and you can still hear the birds chirping which is good because we can talk about what it would be like to be one of them.
I'm sorry I don't have one of your usual coffee mugs. Mine aren't as stained with rings from long-winded stories or faded from a life of experiences. They have yet to be so adventurous.
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I wrote a song about you.
It's not perfect yet. I don't want to share it until it's perfect, but when it's ready you'll be the first one I share it with.
You taught me many things. I never mentioned that to you, but you did. Strong-willed and bull-headed, but a compassionate soul that wanted everyone to feel loved...even the plants, so you named them and conversed with them knowing that they would return the love with blooms of life. I'm still working on my green thumb.
I'm sorry I never told you any of this before. Life fools us into thinking that it lasts forever and time tricks us into believing there's always something more important.
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Coffee was good this morning.
I would rather have coffee on your patio, but it's not yours anymore.
The sun room is fine though.
I don't have one of your usual coffee mugs. Someone else has it as a reminder of you.
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I had coffee with you this morning.
You weren't there, but your chair was.
