Cars swiftly passing, people chiming through the door entrance. The waft of hot, fresh coffee tickling its way up my nostrils. Pitter patter sprinklings of conversation. College students engulf themselves into their latest research papers on their laptops. Cushioned chairs envelope the customers like a caterpillar’s cocoon. Stepping in the door, customer ducklings line up to mama duck, the cash register. Various colors and art pieces entrance the aesthetic eye. The aurora borealis of knowledge paints the bookshelves with intrigue. Zzhh-zzhhhh buzzes the coffee machine as it produces daily waterfalls of warm delight.
Commonly, the atmosphere presents a Zen-like flow of consistency. Curiosity and excitement peak the interest in bookworms while the mugs of morning energy provide busy-bodies with their daily engine revving. To me, on this day, I'm anything but calm or excited.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. My heart rate increases, my nerves strike in, and my mind rollercoasters around every idea imaginable. I approach the charcoal-colored tables outside and sit in one of the many unbalanced chairs. With the rising blood flow and the beanie on my head, my body temperature has risen.
City bums smoke above the shop and the hot, ashy, burnt nicotine fumes waltz the distance down to my nose – jousting with the coffee bean scent. The outdoors chill the uncomfortably stiff chairs, adding to the unusually tense atmosphere. Such a place of warmth and comfort should not be threatening and unpredictable. Yet every second passes by slower than a metronome. A minute takes an hour.
Suddenly, I realize that the constant noise dissipates when I actually take notice of the hushed environment. And right as the noticeable quietness returns for a split second, the source of my endless spider-web of thoughts saunters up the unforgettable concrete walkway. The five-foot-nine figure manifests in front of the table. Gray bristles of aging hairs mask his face with a beard, each eye a different shade of hazel, and a hopeful smile like that of a father meeting his youngest child thirteen years later.
Which he is. For the first time I see the second half of my creators on this earth. My facial expression is blank like a new sheet of paper ready for an artful masterpiece. My mouth stays closed like a stubborn jacket zipper that just won’t open. But despite my initial caution of outward expression, my inner self remains hopeful for a pleasant encounter.
This stranger advances toward a chair and joins the seating area. Of course he introduces himself and explains how this day is such a revelatory and cathartic experience for him. But, I have no coherency on whether the event plays out well or if it is plummeting for a brick wall. All I can feel is shock for the emotions of first meeting this significant person.
Then I receive a few slices of paper with parts of our history together. One being a gift-card type of cardstock with multiple wallet-sized photos of my three-year-old self and my thirteen-years-younger father. Along with it, a sheet of pink construction paper with a red toddler’s handprint that I had apparently produced with vibrant preschooler paint. This paper in particular was a Valentine’s Day gift to my father from daycare. In his eager moment to connect with me, he returned a gift that I had made him years ago. He desired to give me something precious to remember him by, in the case that we would only see each other this one time.
Fortunately, I have maintained a relationship with him and now gladly reminisce. To most people, it was simply a place to accept hot coffee or read a book. But for me, I accepted eternal life change, at Margie’s Java Joint.