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Twenty Seven Years Later.

It was called ‘The French Cafe,’ which would normally be the kind of place I would avoid, but one of my co workers got me hooked on the french vanilla mocha latte. I now went there every Sunday like clockwork, placing my order before sitting at my favorite table near the back. I would read my Sunday paper and watch the happenings in the small town I called my home. I didn’t interact much with the people, that was my wife’s job throughout our marriage as she never met a stranger.

My wife would have loved this little piece of European culture in a small southern town, another reason I went there to read a Sunday paper I would rather have read at home. I had promised her I would get out of the house some, and five years after her passing away I did: every Sunday at ‘The French Cafe.’ I lived a very simple life since she died, working six days a week and them Sunday at the cafe. This week was like any other week as I placed my order at the front counter with my paper tucked under my arm. I never expected a new chapter of my life to start that day or maybe it was an old chapter revisited, I am not sure.

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