Momental Musings no.1
you-shaped hollow in the world
It's snowing as I walk into what is probably my sixth coffee house this week; this week, it's gone on for much longer. It's cold, in the way the absence of those you love is cold—but that just seems to be the normal in this place called Vermont. I walk into the coffee house, a scene that's become somewhat familiar within this past week—I take in the space, not through my own eyes but through hers, noticing all the parts she’d cherish. The weathered wood tables she’d run her hands across, the glass chandeliers her eyes would go wide at admiring, the fireplace and the way the stones capture the heat that comes from it, and the leather couch she’d absolutely Google reverse image search.
I walk up to the barista, and the same familiar conversation repeats: "What can I get you?" I replied like I had at all six coffee houses this trip: "Oat milk cortado please." And whatever pastry looked like, it held the most comfort at that moment. The cortado arrives, notes of white peach dancing with citrus peel, something nutty lingering at the edges—but also carrying a hint of longing as it hits the back of my taste buds. Across the table, morning light illuminates not just an empty chair, but a you-shaped hollow in the world that makes even this perfect coffee taste slightly desaturated, as if missing its most vital color.
During this week away, blessed by the distance, I've reached for ways to be close while working miles away. I ordered flowers, and during our nightly FaceTime calls—which make being away just that much harder when I can see and hear our space—I arranged for morning coffee delivery since I couldn't set up the pot myself. Each gesture felt simultaneously too much and not enough, this digital approximation of care. But maybe that's what love is: doing what you can from where you are. I'd be remiss if I didn't acknowledge how unfortunate it is that it took miles apart for me to make such gestures and so effortlessly hear your voice's tiredness. I write this now, trying to capture this clarity before it fades so that I may recall it in the future when he looks back.
Musings
I. ON FINDING HOME
Thirteen years ago, I found my happy. Not the fleeting kind that dissolves like sugar in hot coffee, but the sort that roots itself in your bones and grows there. The kind that makes you want to collect ordinary Tuesdays like precious stones, that makes you wish you could bottle every mundane morning just to breathe it in again.
II. ON THE MIRROR OF DISTANCE
Future self, remember this borrowed morning light and how it revealed the architecture of love hidden in daily routines. Remember how distance made everything sharp and clear, how absence taught you to see what proximity had made invisible. Don't wait for another empty chair to remind you of the gift of presence. Being close isn't enough—it never was.
III. ON CHOOSING PRESENCE & COMING HOME
The same heart that aches with distance can choose presence when close. The same eyes that notice absence can learn to see what's right in front of them. Time moves like water, but love moves like choice. Choose them. Again and again. In coffee pots and text messages. In flowers and small noticings. In all the ways that say "I see you" without saying anything at all. In noticing the tiredness in her voice and expressing exhaustion on your own.
Time moves like water, but love moves like choice.
When I return home today, the coffee will taste familiar again. The chairs will hold our stories instead of our absence. But I want to remember this clarity—how distance taught me that presence isn't passive but a choice we make again and again.
Let me love them like I'm about to leave. Show up like I've just returned. Notice everything like I've been gone forever.
A Note from a Homesick Husband: Vermont Coffee Houses Worth Sharing
In writing about absence and presence, I should share the places that helped me find moments of connection, even in solitude. While trying new coffee houses without her wasn't quite the same, these spaces managed to pull me from my homesick reverie, if only for the length of a perfectly crafted cortado.
The finest cortado I've ever experienced (and I had five this week alone). Grade: A
Here, baristas don't just make coffee—they craft works of art. The rotating espresso menu speaks to their dedication to the craft, and the space itself invites contemplation. It is perfect for sitting, sipping, and writing letters home to those you miss—just what I did several times. I can’t say enough about the finest cortado throughout the whole trip.
Coffee: Grade B, Food: A+, Espresso Glazed Donut: Transcendent
Some things earn their place in your last meal menu—this donut is one of them. The staff's genuine joy in their craft shows in everything from their interactions to their impeccable breakfast sandwiches. Less a study spot and more a place for lingering conversations.
Beyond excellent coffee, they offered something unexpected: hospitality that turned into mentorship. The lead barista's willingness to share their coffee roasting philosophy and startup insights added another layer to my understanding of what makes a coffee house feel like home.
Written in the borrowed morning light,
For when proximity makes me forget how to see
Ways to support:
I love coffee, and you're more than welcome to buy me one
My extraordinary partner Jalesa Dodson runs a children's book and craft studio focused on quality family time—supporting our small business is one of the most meaningful ways to support this work.
See you all in the New Year, I pray you all find the PRESENCE in these up coming weeks.
-John
SO MUCH POETRY 😭❤️👏🏽