Missing out again

Fairly early in the pandemic, 300-some days ago, I broke the carafe for our coffeemaker. It was drying in the dish rack, and some mysterious force of gravity pulled it into the sink, where it smashed.

I ordered another, and we’ve enjoyed hundreds of cups of coffee from that carafe.

Until this week. While making breakfast, I reached into the dishwasher for the carafe, and it fell into pieces. How did that happen? I’m not sure. The early morning light was dim, and I hadn’t had any coffee.

Ordering a new carafe—or a whole new coffeemaker even—isn’t a big deal. But, as I hunted down shards of glass on the kitchen floor, I thought about how much harder things seem the second time around during the pandemic.

I met the anniversary of the last day of in-person school with eyes wide open—bracing myself for that weight. A whole year. But I’m realizing that missing out on experiences for the second time might be harder. Missing the second pandemic birthdays for friends and family and celebrating the second St. Patrick’s Day without extended family are bringing a different mix of emotions.

Doing St. Patrick’s Day alone last year had a sort of a novelty to it. I pulled out the shamrock tablecloth and made Irish soda bread and corned beef and cabbage. Over the past year, though, we’ve done every holiday alone. They’ve been wonderful, happy times, and we’ve enjoyed our time just as a family of four. Yet somehow the idea of doing it all over again is bringing an additional heaviness.

The soda bread on St. Patrick’s Day was as tasty as ever, but we couldn’t be with either of our families again this year. And I found myself thinking that making things special the second time around is going to be harder. I hope I have the creativity and energy to make it happen. But if I don’t, I will try to give myself a little extra grace. Because none of this is easy. And we have all achieved more simply by enduring through this time, with greater knowledge, lots of joy, and plenty of fun memories mixed in with the aspects of this time that are harder to bear.

At the same time, spring is coming. I can see the buds forming on our magnolia tree. And the first daffodils are starting to open in the neighborhood. I also believe vaccines and herd immunity might mean that I won’t be making my own Thanksgiving feast this year.

Hope is real. I can taste it. So, I’ll let myself be sad about missing things for a second time.

And I’ll keep in mind that the whole situation will look better if I can just get my hands on a cup of coffee.

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