Comfort

Herself speaks.

Something I hadn't mentioned outright previously (though I alluded to it in the entry, Nice): for a bit of time prior to the Divergence, Cherished Friend was working a job here in my corner of this desert land, and was momentarily residing with me, Beloved Husband, Offspring the Second, and Offspring the Third.

I knew it was temporary. Still, it was a delightful turn of events. I thought briefly about the possibility of local weekend adventures -- hiking, camping, general stuff -- and there seemed so much promise in the air.

And then: Pandemic. 

Although travel-related activities were sharply curtailed, I was nevertheless happy that Cherished Friend was here under our roof. He is an excellent house guest: quiet, tidy, helpful, and outstanding company. Attentively conversational. He patiently fed New Old Dog, even when New Old Dog was finicky; he tolerated our family noise and foibles. He and Beloved Husband went for weekend motorcycle rides. There were a lot of games of Scrabble. I knew that if he came down with COVID-19, we would be able to tend to him; and that he would be helpful if someone in the household became ill. His company was a great source of comfort whenever I felt agitated or afraid or worried about the Pandemic, or about the State of the World in general. Just his presence in the evenings, whether on the couch in the living room or in one of the patio chairs, was a comfort.

Friendship is a sheltering tree. -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Now he is Oceanside, and I am delighted for him. So much potential for his dreams to come to fruition there. I hope for the very best for him, as Always.

There is a Cherished Friend-shaped hole in the household. Despite the short time he was under this roof, we became quite used to his presence. I am re-learning how to cook less. I no longer catch the ever-so-faint aroma of coffee in the morning. I walk into the garage and see only Beloved Husband's motorcycle, solitary without his companion motorcycle. I've put away the small basket that resided on the kitchen counter, into which we put mail or other items belonging to him. I've been in his room only once since he left for Oceanside; I still feel in many ways that it is his personal space and I don't want to intrude. It still retains the scent that his other domiciles have had, and that is comforting.

There will always be a place for him here. I don't know when he'll next be under our roof; I do know, though, that it will be a delight.

Cinnamon toast: a small comfort in these times.