Friday Writing Response for June 26, 2009

This one was harder to finish than I thought it would be, including a couple false starts. The first image I came up with for the "I remember..." prompt ended up being the one I used, though I tried others first. I think it has to do with the proximity of the event in question, the one year anniversary of Steve's death coming up. The prompt I used was: "I remember Steve ordering his caramel macchiatos, wanting them 'hot, hot, hot,' the look on Kim's face when she told me he passed away."


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Pat and Steve used to come to our store two or three times a week. They'd been married for forever and a day, and whenever we hired a new barista, Pat made sure to ask what his or her name was, how they liked the store, what was new that day. Every time we would go out and clean the condiment bar, one of them would strike up a conversation, and if the store was slow, I would stand there and talk for a few minutes.

When they came in, every one of us knew what Pat and Steve drank: caramel macchiatos, no foam, light caramel, nonfat milk, "hot, hot, hot," Steve would tell us as he pulled out his money. I always remember him smiling as he got their drinks, bring them to their table by the window. After their morning drinks, they would walk a few laps around the mall, hand in hand.

They were like the store's grandparents. When mine were three states away, I felt like I could confide in them if I ever needed someone to talk to. When I opened the store during the week, I always knew I'd get to see them.

Then, a few weeks passed, and Pat and Steve didn't come in. Steve had cancer, I learned, something he'd been fighting for a long time. No one ever mentioned a thing and he was always smiling, never mentioning that anything was wrong. Their absence from our store was something we noticed.

We signed get well cards. A few of my co-workers visited him in the hospital; I wasn't able to go. The last I knew, the doctors said Steve was getting better, and he should get to come home.

He didn't. Pat and her sister came in to tell Kim and Steph, who had worked there the longest, the closest to them. And it was Kim who told me as I walked in for my shift. "Steve's dead."

I stared at her, mouth slack, trying to let the words sink in. Steve's dead. I didn't realize I'd started crying until the tears had reached my chin and Kim was pulling me against her, my head pressed against her shoulder. "I've been thinking about how to tell you and it just came out," she said. "We cried too. I sent Steph home. She's never lost someone so close before."

Later that night, I would send Kim home too; though she tried to act like she was okay, her heart and mind were elsewhere. I would be the strong one, who would take care of the store and do my job for all of us.

All I remember is getting home and finally letting it out, curling up with my new kitten, only four months old at the time, still young enough to want to be held. That was how my parents found me, balled up on the couch, clutching my cat and unable to stop crying.

The part that hurt the most was explaining who Steve was and what he meant to us. That was almost a year ago, now. Steph mentioned it a couple weeks ago and though Pat still comes in, still talks about Steve, none of us have mentioned the anniversary to her.