nobody does coffee like she did

In less than a week it will be three years since my little sister died. How something can feel like an eternity and be remembered as if it was yesterday is beyond me. Still, I’m all about the good times now. I almost never cry, not because it’s not sad, it’s bloody sad for a person to slip away into the cold blue nothing at the age of forty-two. It’s sad, unfair, and it hurts, but my time for daily crying has passed.

Daily wishing though, is another story.

Last week I was on the phone with my mum and we speculated on what we’d do if we had just another five minutes with Libby.

‘No, quarter of an hour,’ one of us said.

I thought about holding Libby’s hand, I thought about walking the aisles of Savers with her, I thought about getting a chance to say goodbye and I love you and thanks for being you, and hugging her one last time.

But I said, ‘we’d laugh our heads off.’

Because she was funny, an idiot, a trickster, a joke teller, a story maker.

I decided if wishes came true, if another five was really in the offing, I’d take her out for coffee for the sheer thrill of watching her ruin the joint.

Nobody drinks coffee like Libby did.

She’d order a cappuccino. She was a sweet tooth like me and she needed sugar in her coffee. But she wouldn’t hold a sugar packet by the end and shake it so the sugar was in the bottom and the top could be torn with neatness and efficiency, no, that wasn’t her style. Libby’d tear the packet in the middle and sugar would fly footloose across the table. And she didn’t pour what was left of her sugar into the centre of the cappuccino foam, there was not a chance of seeing sugar slide a funnel into her coffee. No, Libby, would tip the sugar around the outside of her coffee then stir, taste, and declare it needed more. Of course it did. Two of three more sugar packets later, it would look like it had been snowing at our table, and her coffee would be deemed good enough to drink.

This kind of thing, spilled sugar, spent packets, mess and disruption gave me the shits and amused the me at the same time.

I guess that’s people though.


I wish she wasn’t dead.

I wish I could hold her small hard-worked hand, I’d like to hear her voice an opinion about the Pope, or asylum seekers, or the PM because Libby did cranky with panache. And I’d love to take her out for a coffee.


that’s Libby and that’s one of the many

cards she loved me with.

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