Today’s music from the diner sound system is, as they say, “the soundtrack of my youth.” The server and I sing along and laugh. We’re both off key but we know the words, anticipating them in some cases, as one does.
There are four sets of older men sitting at tables, gossiping. In the old days, one would have said “gossiping like old women,” but I have been investigating the misogyny of my youth, discovering that, in fact, old women are no more or less inclined to gossip than old men.
Next to me, a young woman sits alone, reading a book whose name I’ve never been able to discover, regardless of the times I’ve snuck a peek at it. She’s picking at the remains of a Morning After Breakfast Special, so called because it includes a happy amount of eggs, bacon, and crepe-like pancakes with crispy edges. Before digesting food became such a challenge, the diner’s syrup-y pancakes were my favorite.
The new server tries to hand me a menu. I smile and reach out to take it from her. One of the other servers takes it before I can and laughs. “Deb does not need a menu,” she says. I laugh and shrug. She tells the new employee what I usually order and explains that Malik is already making it. The new server delivers it and says, “Do we need anything else?” I hope she’s not deliberately using the royal we but I’m nice and tell her that I’m all set.
A woman I know joins me, unexpectedly, at my table. She says, “I’m going down to see my mom next week. Did I tell you she has cancer?” Her eyes are full of tears. She gestures to them and says, “I’m getting pretty used to it. Now, I only cry two or three times a day.” She’s laughing through her tears, sure that I’ll understand. Of course I do. We talk for a bit about her mom, their plans, and her fear, her relentless web searching for answers and hope. Before she leaves, I say, “Can I give you a piece of advice?” Her eyes fill again and we take a minute for a tight hug. “We don’t know what will happen,” I whisper to her. She gulps back her tears and nods against my cheek. “We don’t know,” she whispers back. “We don’t know.”
I move on to the coffee shop for a brief visit. I have a doctor appointment today so I’m mostly settling myself, my nerves, before I head to her office. There’s a young person in my usual seat. She’s working with delicate granny squares. There are nine laid out in a pattern on the table as she begins the process of sewing them together. As women walk through the door, they look down at her table and compliment her work. She looks up and smiles each time, thanking them.
It’s a gray Friday, too April-chilly for the big garage door to be open. A young man, colt-ish, as writers might describe him, lopes along beside a parental figure across the street. His stride is a little awkward, as though he had a growth spurt and hasn’t quite adjusted yet. He has the long, thick hair of a teenager who is rebelling against his parents, who also rebelled against theirs.
A graying redheaded woman walks by the coffee shop next to a young man. She says something and he laughs, turning his head toward her, the smile still on his lips. I suspect that she’s Mom but that’s just me making up stories as I watch humanity pass by on an early Friday.
Much love.
