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Mimi would always tell me that she knew someone loved her when they would get her water from the kitchen instead of the bathroom.
When she was little, and would get sick, her Mother would always ask if she wanted a drink, and then bring her water from the bathroom. She said it always tasted funny. Old. Warm. Metallic. Water from the kitchen was always ice cold and tasted fresh. It's what she always asked for, but her Mother refused to go that far and would take a long time in the bathroom, pretending to be going to the kitchen for water there.
Her Daddy on the other hand, always went to the kitchen. No matter how tired he was, no matter what time it was. If he was there, she got her fresh, cool kitchen water.
It was a small sign of love, but one that stuck with her.
When she was dying, laying in our bed, fever burning her alive, she would ask me for a drink.
I should have gone to the kitchen for it. She would cry and tell me it tasted funny, the water from the bathroom. "Like blood" she would mutter, but she would drink it, let the water wash down her throat, never satisfied.
Now, here I sit... in the same bed, fever burning me alive. And I ask for bathroom water. But he walks the extra distance. He brings me water from the kitchen tap. Cool, clear, fresh water. And I know he loves me.
I cry. My tears could fill a thousand cups. I am drowning in them. Their taste is bitter, warm, metallic. "Like blood," I whisper.
And I am not satisfied.