I think about this scene. I close my eyes and I see it. Chalkboard menus. A corner coffee shop in a funky old brick building… probably an old warehouse space with oil stained oak planks for a floor and wrought iron and wood and the deep rich smell of good coffee. There is an open ceiling, and hanging lights, and these buckle type rods crossing high above the room. And I’m facing the door, the harsh reflections off of cars in the intersection… and sunlight filling the room. I study the bricks… the white stains, the pattern… the row where you see the ends… there is a spot where patrons have carved letters into the softer brick… the gaps where mortar has fallen out. Holes. Repairs. Window openings that have been filled in.
And from behind me, Ethan walks in. And I sip my chocolate coffee. I give him a glance. He has stubble on his face and his short spiky hair is showing under his camouflage cap. He’s tugging nervously at his red and black shirt.
He hesitates, and asks softly, “Can I do it over, dad?”
I look up and see that he is weeping.
“No… no, Ethan. It is done.”