He needs to sit here and watch the sunrise with the black box of Steve's ashes sitting beneath the coffee grinder. The sun seeps up behind the coastal range east across the bay. A lone pelican floats in the pink glaze on the water, a squadron of five passes majestically, and a flock of black grackles fly swiftly over the carpet of beach weed that fronts the palapa. Right about now Steve would be lumbering off with his cup of coffee to visit Bob or Al, talk fishing or cars, pilfer a little beach gossip or news from the real world out there. Sometimes I can just about imagine him off in the background somewhere, doing his Steve thing.
Breakfast is uninspired.
Eating has lost most of its pleasure. For me, eating has always been about people. I remember many a meal, just the three of us, where there was so much to choose from that I didn't even taste all of the dishes, and Steve would be hurt. I'm having a sad day. What I need to remember when I have a bad day, is that every day used to be a bad day.