I still haven’t opened one of the bags. They sit right where I left them. Some days I think about making one. Other days I can’t even look at the tin.

The mug is back out on the counter now. I don’t know what else to do with it.

I keep walking past the counter and stopping to look at the mug and the tin side by side. The mug has that chip on the rim from when it fell off the table back in the spring. We never did get around to replacing it.

The tin still has the tape folded up on the side where I left it. I keep meaning to throw it away but I haven’t touched it since that first day.

When I close my eyes I can feel how the bags shifted when I picked up the tin. They made a soft sound like dry leaves in a bag. The metal was smooth except for those dents I mentioned.

His handwriting on the tag was the part that got to me the most. The letters were bigger at the start and then they got smaller and closer together at the end. Like he was trying to fit it all on one side.

The note said “I counted them out myself last week when you were at the doctor with your sister.”

I didn’t even remember that trip until I read it again.

Then it said “One for every morning I might still get to see.”

“Figured we could sit here like always and it would feel right.”

I had to put the tin down after that because my eyes were blurry and I didn’t want to drop it.

He wrote “The taste took some getting used to but now I like it better than the coffee.”

That was the line that made me sit down at the table.

I just sat there with my hands in my lap and the tin in front of me.

The kitchen was quiet except for the clock ticking on the wall. I could smell the coffee can even though it was closed tight.

“I should have done this years ago instead of waiting until it was almost too late.”

That was near the end. The words were pressed hard into the paper like he was mad at himself when he wrote them.

I turned the tag over but there was nothing on the back. Just the wire looped through.

Now the tin stays on the counter and I look at it every time I make my tea. The bags are still all stacked the same way he left them. Not one has been moved.

Some days I think he would want me to use them. Other days it feels like opening it would be saying goodbye all over again.