The Usual

I'm chatting with Peter about my coffee. How I've stopped drinking soy and how disappointing that is when I go to order my lattes now.

"I don't know how I like my coffee now," I say.

"I have to get used to this," he says, laughing. "I see you and I think soy latte. This is messing up my system."

He's the barista at the shop I call my office today. But more than that, he's the guy who knows how I like my coffee. He's the guy who says, "I saw you and your daughter walking the other day. Were you headed to the park?" And then we talk about Chesterton and Chemex while he swirls the foam on the top of the black mug.

My building manager knows us — that I play guitar and M thinks he's the best.
The neighbor kids come knocking for play, for cookies, for dinner, for another home away from home.
The UPS man has saved my number in his cell, so he can just call me when a package gets here, instead of making me watch the windows. M calls him Mr. PBS.

There's all these things that make this place feel like a smaller world.

I walk back to my car, new coffee brewed in my hand and one full year of this city behind us. The streets have memories. That sidewalk corner. That bench. These smells, and colored trees; sounds and seasons. I'm admitting that we're here for awhile. Signing leases, committing to long-term vision, enrolling in schools, calling it home, learning what it means to be both gypsy spirits and steady trees. 

It's not so bad staying put. 

Friends know your address.

Home feels a little bit more like that place that beckons us to relax and rest for awhile. 

People notice when your coffee order changes.
It's not so bad I tell my antsy feet.
It's good for us I tell my aching wings.