I STILL BUY TWO COFFEES ON SUNDAYS

Dear Delyara, My wife died eleven months ago, and every Sunday I still order two coffees. The young man at the café has stopped correcting me. At first he would say, “Two?” and I would nod before remembering. Now he simply places both cups on the counter. One black. One with oat milk and cinnamon. I carry them to the table near the window. I drink mine. Hers sits across from me until the foam collapses and a thin skin forms on top. I understand that this is wasteful. My daughter told me last month that I need to stop “performing grief.” She didn’t mean to be cruel. She is grieving too, and grief makes children impatient with the way their parents survive. But I’m not performing anything. For thirty-seven years, Sunday morning meant placing a warm cup into my wife’s hands before she was fully awake. I don’t know how to teach my hands that marriage has ended when love has not. So I still buy two.