Of Saturday mornings and burnt pancakes

I have been waking up on Saturdays around the same time my husband died that fateful Saturday morning.

It is the first thing that enters my mind upon waking up. It is the only thing that occupies my mind any time of the day, every second of my waking hours. The loss and emptiness hits me so hard, the pain is physical in the gut.

I would like to sleep some more to escape from this reality, but sleeping proves just as much as hard. The emptiness is more palpable. I try to occupy the entire bed and put pillows and stuff at that vacant part used to be my husband’s side of the bed. But even then, the emptiness is glaring, because the emptiness is not just physical. It is embedded deep in my heart and bones and soul and I could not escape from it no matter how I crowd the bed, how loud the TV as I try to sleep, or how many lights are on.

Today was no different. I woke up and the unbidden thoughts and memories just pop up.

What if October 15 did not happen? We would still be asleep at 6:00 AM, especially that it is drizzling outside, my favorite weather of all time.

We would wake up later, I would prepare breakfast. If we did not have any scheduled work, we would linger at the table talking and bantering. We never ran out of topics.

We would do the laundry while watching our favorite English and Korean series. Late afternoon, we would walk around the compound, sometimes just sit by the pool and talk.

Today, I had to get up early. I have errands that cannot be postponed. I prepared pancakes for breakfast. It was the only edible thing in my “pantry”, as I stopped buying groceries since my husband passed away.

I poured the batter into the pan, sat down for a while and just forgot about it. It took a while for me to remember that I was cooking pancakes.

It was burnt to the core. It was black. It smelled and tasted burnt.

I guess Saturdays, or any day for that matter, will never be the same again.

 

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