The tea kettle whistles softly in the quiet of the morning. I reach for the mug you once gave me—blue ceramic with little yellow flowers, chipped at the rim from cups tumbling out of the cabinet, still warm with memory. Outside, the cold winter fog clings to the hills like a shawl, and I remember how you used to say that mist was the earth’s way of whispering secrets of stories yet untold. That always gives me comfort.
You left just before sunrise. The train was already rumbling in the distance when we reached the platform. We didn’t speak much—just a few words about your itinerary, a reminder to call when you landed. That was enough to let me know how much you love me.
Then the kiss. Soft, familiar, lingering.
Afterward, our hands found each other—in quiet knowing. Fingers curled together, then slowly drifted apart as you stepped back, one foot on the train, one still on the platform. You didn’t look away. Neither did I.
Every time I think of you, I remember that moment. The way our hands held the whole story—love, parting, promise. The space between us felt like a thread, stretched but never broken.
Oh, how I miss you once you leave. My heart aches each time you go.
Now, in the hush of morning, I trace the rim of the mug and imagine your hand doing the same on your cup while we look out into our yard. I butter the toast the way you like it. I let the radio play. It gives me comfort while you’re away. I wear your robe while sipping my tea, not for warmth, but for the scent of your cologne, still tucked into the fabric. It makes you feel near.
Even after all these years of marriage, I still feel the same as when we were young and in new love. Everything is tender and full of noticing—even still.
We’re still learning how to be apart without unraveling. after all these years. Still learning how to miss each other without making it heavy. Still learning how to say “I’ll see you soon”.
Every time I think of you, I remember that love is made of small things. A chipped mug. A folded note. A hand that lingers before letting go.
And when you come back…when the train pulls in and you walk toward me with that familiar grin. I’ll remember this morning. I’ll remember how missing you made me love you more. Love lingers in the quiet.
May your mornings be full of remembering, and your partings softened by love that lingers.
What about you?
What small thing reminds you of someone you love? A scent, a sound, a morning habit? Share your story in the comments—or tag me if you post it elsewhere. Let’s gather these quiet moments together.
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