The Taste of Memory

The Taste of Memory There are so many things I cannot do anymore because they carry Sana’s imprint. Grief is not always loud. Sometimes it arrives quietly — in the grocery aisle, at a café counter, in the pause before taking a bite of something you once shared. There are foods I avoid now because they hold her memory too closely. It’s strange how, in the ordinary rhythm of life, we never notice how deeply moments attach themselves to taste, to smell, to routine. But once someone is gone, those simple things can hit like a sudden backhand — sharp, unexpected, disorienting. Sana introduced me to flavored coffee. Not just vanilla or hazelnut — she would experiment with the most unexpected combinations. Caramel with something bold. Chocolate with a hint of spice. Flavors I would have dismissed if she hadn’t insisted, “Just try it.” And somehow, they always tasted good. More than good. They tasted like her — creative, curious, a little unconventional, and completely confident in her choices. We would sip and talk. Or sometimes just sip. It was never just coffee. It was connection. Now, I find myself standing in front of those same flavored syrups and turning away. I cannot bring myself to order one. I don’t know if what rises in me is guilt or sadness. Maybe it is both. Guilt for tasting something she loved without her. Sadness because the sweetness feels incomplete. Grief rewires the senses. What once brought comfort can now feel unbearable. What once felt ordinary now carries weight. The world does not warn you about this part — the way memory embeds itself in everyday rituals. People often say, “Hold on to the memories.” But sometimes memories are not gentle. Sometimes they sting before they soothe. And yet, perhaps one day, I will order a flavored coffee again. Perhaps I will take a sip and let the sadness sit beside the sweetness. Perhaps I will allow the memory to be both ache and gift. Because loving someone means that even coffee can become sacred. For now, I honor where I am. I honor the pause. I honor the tears. I honor the way love lingers in the smallest details. Sana lives not only in grand memories but in flavored coffee combinations that once made us laugh. And maybe, just maybe, that is her quiet way of reminding me that she is still here — in taste, in scent, in memory. And one day, when I am ready, I will sip again.