I take a sip and I’m there with you in the tiny living room, in a quiet morning while the babies sleep. Before espresso and milk frothers came into my life, it was drip and some chemicals we called creamer. And it was you. Us. With stronger coffee than anyone else in our family enjoys and tired smiles. You didn’t get to see this house. The one we bought on the exact two year mark of your death—signing and dating a thousand times like taking paper cuts to my right hand. You didn’t get to see the daisies that grew wild in the front yard (or did you and Jesus…
A fundamentalist turned freedom chaser with an obnoxiously stubborn faith.