Our town. Looking outside the breakfast window.
It’s funny, I had planned on writing about my Friday breakfast with a friend, Liz. I even pulled out my writer’s notebook and jotted down my people watching observations as I sat waiting for her to arrive. In between the stitches of my sock knitting I watched as common folks came off the evening shift at a local nursing home. A doctor and his wife. Teachers, like myself, celebrating the end of the week. Retirees who have a relaxed look that I only recognize in myself well into summer. And of course waitresses who deserve the biggest of tips because they work the worst of the shifts. I remember those days; I always leave extra in my tip.
It was early. Before my husband was up. Liz and I meet early so we have time to talk and share our week and drink coffee. As I sat waiting I found myself watching a table of older Maine men who use their hands for work. They all had grubby baseball caps on, showing the signs of daily use and love. All with the prominent “B” proudly displayed. Red Sox. But the table was enticing because it also held one young man who was one of them, but not. I watched him, wondering what it was like for him sitting and working amongst such elders. “He probable gets ragged on a lot,” I found myself thinking. He had a huge appetite and drank a lot of coffee. He never stopped listening to the conversations of the table. Finally Liz enters, rushed, out of breath. We drink our coffee, share our thinkings about her upcoming retirement, making insulated curtains, and our kids. We remark on how we order the same thing every week. We look at the clock. Where did the time go? We hastily depart and that slice seems to fade away as quickly as it was experienced.
Now, at days end, I sit in front of the wood stove, cat curled up at my head, Neil Young on the radio, glass of red wine calling my name. Time to turn the day over, the week over, and sit, relaxed, with my best friend. I guess I did write about breakfast after all.
Enjoy your weekend.