generations change, but traditions remain
We seldom get a window seat at the café across from old city hall. The coffee is their peanut butter roast and we order pancakes, light as a cliché. Anchors to a Sunday tradition, that has us snug as a hug in the front booth.
The scent of dad’s ol’ spice cologne lingers on the gentleman one booth over. I miss that scent—and dad. Fresh-washed and going-somewhere. I missed much of what mom said before she left early with my sisters.
My tablet is backlight to a world gone by. The window is lit with a world passing by. Both are silent. We are not. Filling the booth of cinematic windows with laughter. And the scent of peanut butter, spice, and pancake.
