I need my husband to fall in love again.
To take that plunge of “all in” emotion with the same hopeful abandon he had the day he proposed.
As if to say, “I don’t know everything about you, but enough to know I love you, we’re a match, we can make a life together!”
I miss that man, the man who used to wake up with an expectant passion just because he was to see his great love.
And then there’s this: The love? I’m not talking about me. It’s time to share that we’ve had a death in our family. It’s my husband’s coffee machine.
And not just any coffee machine; rather one of those fancy Italian jobbers that does everything. I think it might even have had a little elf living inside growing perfect beans overnight.
I know it’s not politically correct to be obsessed with stuff. I mean, after all, it is just stuff. But even the most zen of us have at least one thing that makes your heart go aflutter.
What is it for you, Dear Reader?
A certain pair of shoes? Your great aunt’s silver tea set? A record collection that collects dust more than it gets played?
For Husband, it was this coffee machine. It’s the only piece of furniture he moved in with when we got married.
And so, it has sat for more than the last three years taking up serious real estate on our limited kitchen counter.
A couple of months ago, the sputter started sounding more like coughing than coffee. Husband nursed it along pouring chemicals down various spouts, calling 1-800-HELP-lines, taking apart pieces.
Final verdict: Machine’s a goner. Too expensive to ship away to fix.
I’ve tried to help lift his gloom by sending links to various machines that might be a replacement.
Have you ever tried to fix your husband up with a new love? Let me tell you, it’s not easy.
“This one is too expensive,” he’ll complain. “That one doesn’t froth the milk while it grinds the beans.”
Who knew that was a thing? Certainly not boring tea drinker me.
I find myself enabling the mourning each morning.
After dropping various kids at school, I swing into a fancy coffee place, returning home with a 12-gallon cup of their strongest coffee.
Why would Husband commit to a new love, when I’m stringing him along with this temporary fix? Part of me thinks I need to cut off this delivery service, cold turkey him into finally committing.
The other part wants to let him decide when it’s time to love again.
I’ve lost enough to know letting go comes in time.
In our own time. In Husband’s time.
Maybe we can talk about it, you and I.
About your treasure. Your loss. Your grief.
Maybe even one day I’ll be able to invite you over for a cup coffee.
Husband makes the best ever. He will.
Soon as he’s ready to get that new machine.
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