Gabe Berman's Blog

It took ten hours to write 931 words today and I just deleted them all.

See ya. Wouldn’t want to be ya. Into the garbage can you go.

Early this morning I was yanked from sleep when my phone rang.

I saw my sister’s name on the screen and I basically just fucking died right there in my bed. I’ve reached my limit for bad news. Sorry folks, the park is closed. Indefinitely.

But thankfully, she just dialed me accidentally while holding her phone in one hand and the dog leash in the other.

I wrote paragraphs about and that. And then paragraphs about not being able to hold on to gratitude even after I just dodged a life-ending bullet that wasn’t even fired.

Why can’t we hold on to gratitude? Because no states of mind can be maintained. We wish it was otherwise but as the enlightened ones say: tough titties.

And even before all of that, I opened the piece by asking: Can you still consider yourself an artist if you never, or almost never, add any art to the world anymore?

But like I said, that’s all been 86’d.

Why?

Because I’ve written about this over and over again until I’m papa smurf blue in face.

And if I’m really being honest with you, which is the only way I know how to be, I’ll have to admit that part of the reason why I want create great art is so my family, friends and acquaintances think I’m great.

So they say, “Damn, that Gabe guy turned out to be pretty goddamn great after all.”

Like somehow my whole life would be justified and I wouldn’t seem like such a loser.

Wait wait wait. Are these just ramblings of a madman at two o’clock in the morning after typing away all day and having nothing to show for it other than a deleted file? Maybe so, maybe not.

But it feels like I’m running out of time with this whole being great thing. Maybe my family, friends and acquaintances will never think I’m great. Maybe I’ll never be rich and famous.

Can my daily acts of kindness ever be enough for me instead? Survey says: Not likely.

Earlier today I checked in with a friend who I know isn’t doing well. I said something silly to make her laugh and she texted back, “Thank you for the smile. Perfect timing.”

But that’s just so ordinary. Anyone can do that. Why do I still feel the need to be extraordinary? Silly ego, Trix are for kids.

Are you still even reading this? If so, I really appreciate you taking the time to do so. As always, it means the world to me.

Love/thanks,

GB

PS – I know I’m not a loser. I just have a feeling that a lot of the world looks at me that way because I’m not a “success”. And sometimes I get infected by that disease of the mind for a few moments or more. And another thing, while we’re all still here, if you, the person reading this right now, told me you were wondering if you’re enough because the only thing you do is spread kindness liberally like sunblock SPF 36, I’d make sure you knew that you’re enough in this crazy life of ours and I’d hug you so hard your head would pop off your shoulders.

Then why isn’t enough for me?

I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Maybe it’s going to have to be.

I wanted to write about Life tonight but that would also entail writing about Death so I decided not to write about anything at all.

Fuck it.

“What’s the goddamn point,” I thought.

I’ve been saying the same things about the same things for years. Maybe decades.

But then, an hour later, something else arose which made me want to write about Life and Death so I had no choice but to relent. Surrender. Capitulate.

The universe gets what the universe wants and I tip my hat to it.

Incident One:

I’m rereading my favorite book* for the first time in years and once again I feel each sentence beckoning me to dedicate my entire existence to love. Unconditional love for everything. The sound of these crickets under the night sky as I type to you (yes you, the person reading this right now), the way two strangers can look at each other and smile, the memory of laughing with friends after school, and even finding a way to love, somehow, everything I hate. To simultaneously be a beacon of love and its incessant witness.

I was thinking how gifted the author is to be able to feel the subtleties of life the way he does. How gifted he is to recreate these subtleties with such care and grace that it doesn’t even feel like I’m reading his words on the page. Instead, they effortlessly seem to seep through the pores of my skin like a cosmically ordained osmosis.

But then I remembered:

His wife died. As a young man, he was left to raise their daughter by himself. How could this happen? Why does this keep happening to good people??

But like I said, what’s the goddamn point of me writing about any of this? If feels like I throw these ideas into the wind and they just get blown right back into my face.

Incident Two:

An hour later, an article popped up on my phone saying Denis Villeneuve, the director of Dune, will be directing the new James Bond film.

My first thought – text my nephew. Quickly, my next thought – text my Bond-loving brother-in-law. But my third thought blew back my brains like a shotgun shell: holy fuck, he’s dead.

It’s already been a few years since my brother-in-law died and I can’t believe my mind momentarily DeLoreaned off the road like that.

Like that time, long ago, when the Jackie Robinson movie ended and I tried to text my dad while the credits were still rolling …but he was dead for weeks. I rushed past the people in the theater to get to the bathroom and once there, I closed a stall door behind me and cried. I cried silent painful tears.

But why would I write about any of this? Isn’t it all just a remix of a rehash?

I decided to let it marinate. Let it marinated while watching the new episode of The Bear. I put down my iPad and turned on the TV.

NO ACTUAL SPOILER HERE SO DON’T WORRY:

Within the first few minutes of the show, Carmen is on the train texting Mikey. Mikey, his dead brother. Texting him, so they can sort of stay in contact long after he was laid to rest.

Do you believe that?

He texted.

His.

Dead.

Brother.

Right after…I…was going to…text…my…dead…brother-in-law.

What could this mean? I mean, it has to mean something, right?

It can’t just be a coincidence.

It’s like universe knew what was going to happen before it happened. Like it was following a script it wrote in advance. And me and my dad, and my brother-in-law and the author of the book, and Carmen and Mikey were all just playing our parts.

It also feel to me like a little wink from the universe. A little wink saying, “Hey man, I know you struggle sometimes in this crazy heartless world but it’s going to be okay. I’m here. I’m listening. I’m watching. It’s all connected. It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

This alone reminds me of something special. Something special I really believe: the universe, with intention, bends towards love. Slowly slowly slowly bends towards love. It’s our destiny. And because of tonight, I will continue to hold on to that.

Maybe you can too?

Now it’s time for me to sign off but before I do, please let me thank you, once again, for taking a few minutes for my words. It means the world to me.

Love/thanks,

GB

* The author of the book is Simon Van Booy and the title is The Illusion Of Separateness.

The illusion of separateness? Wait, what? Isn’t that what we were just talking about? How it’s all connected?? Like, the universe knew about all of this in advance?? Wow. Just, wow.

And by the way, Simon remarried. I hope he’s happy. He’s a good man.

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts…” – Shakespeare

In my car yesterday, on a drive to absolutely nowhere, I listened to the album Check Your Head by the Beastie Boys.

Halfway through the song “Gratitude”, my thoughts huddled around Adam Yauch who was in that group and died, from cancer of course, when he was just forty-seven.

Stopped at the next red light, images of his young unshaven face from those early MTV videos appeared to me clearly – as if by download. Then, after a bit of a buffering, my mind landed on this memory I have of walking under the marquee at Madison Square Garden which said something like, “Thank you Adam. You will never be forgotten.”

I think I was up in the City during that time and not down here in Florida because my dad was in the trenches of NYU Medical Center. Squaring off with the nastiest of cancers of course.

The light turned green, I put my foot on the gas, and this question arose: if Adam could come back to us right now, but only as a regular joe and not the stellarly successful “MCA” of the Beasties, would he?

Who’s to know.

Who’s to know.

Maybe he’d do anything to alleviate the sadness of his loved ones. Maybe he lived enough in those forty-seven years to fill forty-seven lifetimes.

My plan was to write about this yesterday but I decided against it. It’s always just the same old story out of me nowadays. So, I just let the idea float away. Float away into space with the other garbage my soul stumbles upon and collects.

But today I had lunch with my high school English teacher. The man who inspired me to write. My own personal O Captain My Captain.

He asked if I’ve been writing and I had to admit with a bit of shame, “I’m out of words. There’s just nothing new for me to say.’’

He understood.

And that’s really where this blog post ends. No fanfare. No fireworks. No fat lady. Just some self-reflection on life and on death and then we all return back to scrolling on our phones.

But wait. There’s more.

I told a few friends I had lunch with my high school English teacher and they responded with their own versions of, “He must be so proud of you!”

Me?

Proud of me?

Do you have me confused with somebody else?

My high school English teacher had students who are actually successful.

Successful in writing and in other important fields. And me…I’m just some guy who once pushed some words around like one of those people holding a broom when the circus ends.

Why don’t we just forget about him being proud, I’d just be relieved if he wasn’t embarrassed by me.

But Gabe, you wrote for a newspaper. You had a book published.

Thank you, but none of that means anything to anyone unless you have something to show for it.

And I have nothing.

The end.

~ GB

P.S. But wait. There’s more.

Now I know why I waited until tonight to write about this. In order to wake up. To wake up and remember.

Everything I just said about having nothing is an illusion spun by society.

Success is just an illusion. It’s all just an illusion. And I know this down to by bones. Down to the cells of my bones. To the atoms of those cells. To the particles of those atoms. Down to the spaces between those particles. And down even further than that. I may forget, like I did today, but I always remember.

I remember I am goodness. I remember I am justice. I am mercy. I am gratitude. I am forgiveness. I am love.

And that transcends success. It transcends time. It transcends death.

It even transcends separateness. Which means the person who is reading these words right now, is also the person who wrote them.

Jews I grew up with voted for people who embrace the Swastika.

Jews I went to college with support people who support those who proudly wear the Swastika.

Jews I have known as an adult make excuses for people who crave to see the extermination the swastika represents.

I think about this everyday but I’m bringing it up tonight because I just finished watching the new John Williams documentary which is now streaming on Disney.

I was grinning like the boy I once was from the themes of Star Wars and Raiders and Close Encounters and E.T. and of course, Superman.

But what came next was a quick clip Schindler’s List and I started to weep.

It was supposed to be Never Again. But here we are. Again. On our own soil. Helped into power by our own.

My heart is shattered like a windshield in a fatal car crash.

I looked into those faces in that quick clip and I saw a level suffering which should have remained in one place only. The history books.

You may accuse me of exaggerating and I know many of you will, but if you don’t hear them calculating, you’re not listening.

And the only way this madness and this horror and this terror will ever stop repeating itself is when the majority of the people look into the eyes of another and finally see themselves looking back.

Love/thanks,

GB

I saw a meme once that had a cat just lying around on the floor and the caption said: Even if cats could text you throughout the day, they wouldn’t.  My cat Milo would though. With his little toe beans, he would type a message saying that he wants me to come home right away. Come home right away so he can be inside of the house and outside of the house – simultaneously.  He loves being inside and he loves being outside but complains about both regardless of how many times I tell him that it’s against phsyics to be in two places at the same time.  Cats are so spacey though, I’m sure if anyone can figure out how to that, it would be them.

My favorite part about Milo is that he lets me kiss his face for an unlimited amount of times. It feels like finding an old arcade machine in a pizza place from your childhood that, for some miraculous reason, didn’t need quarters anymore to be played over and over and over again. You just had to press that white “1 Player” button when your game was done. As many times as you wanted to.  For free. Like, maybe at some rich kids house whose parents spared no expense. I’m lying a little here though. He only lets me kiss him indefinitely while I’m holding him tightly to my face, against his will, with both of my arms wrapped around his entire body so he can’t wriggle away.  He submits calmly to it though and I think he secretly even likes it. I once tried to see how many kisses, one right after another, I could get into his eye socket before he accessed that unproportionally powerful feline super-strength to break free but before we reached that point, lactic acid literally made my lip muscles go limp and I just had to let him go in defeat.

He goes by Milo because my friend asked me what I named him when I first got him and I said, totally as a joke, “Mike Lookinland.” Bobby Brady from the Brady Bunch.  She said I should just call him Mi Lo for short.  This same friend brought her own dog to a dog medium.  The dog medium told her that her dog telepathically told her, well, I dont remember the story now. Something about wanting to be the boss I think. Or maybe it was wanting not to be the boss. Either way, Mike Lookinland is sixty-four years old at the time of this writing. Better yet, “writing”. I don’t if what I’m doing here constitutes as actually writing. Speaking of, when I was dropping my mom off at the airport the other day, we were listening to Sgt. Pepper’s in the car and right at the moment Paul sang the bouncy lyrics, “When I’m 64…”, my mom said, “When I was young and first heard this, I thought sixty-four was so old. Now I’m seventy-nine.”

Milo loves his three minute spa treatments of me repetitively giving him soft little grabs of the scruff of his neck. Maybe it reminds him of his mom? When he was a baby? Being carried like that in her mouth? I sometimes wonder what happened to her. Does Milo miss her? I miss my mom sometimes even when she’s right in front of me.  I’m terrified by the fact that at some point in the future, she definitely will no longer be here. And that day grows closer and closer and closer with every passing moment. I’m fifty-two years old and I’m certainly not ready to be an orphan. I don’t think I’ll ever be.  But let’s stop. I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.  I dont want to bring another ounce of energy to it.  Fifty-two. Twelve years until sixty-four. I hope my life feels like it has finally started by then. Long before that preferably.

I saved Milo from the streets but he still loves to be out there on them with their hustle and bustle of birds flying overhead and lizards scampering to-and-fro. We compromised by me buying him a playpen enclosure so he can stay outside for as long as he likes without running away.  I check on him constantly but he’s almost never really ready to come back in. When he is however, he lets me know by yelling for me to rescue him as if he’s drowning. I can easily hear him through the thick wooden front door.  A door you’d need one of those killer fireman axes to get through it like “Here’s Johnny”. But somehow, Milo’s voice penetrates it as thought it’s as permeable as a sliding Japanese shoji screen. And as soon as he’s inside and has a quick bite, he’s yelling for me to let him back out again. Sometimes, on autopilot, I hear myself saying, “You were just out there though!” But I dont want to be that type of parent who exercises control just for the sake of showing him who’s boss so when Milo says jump, I say how high. Life is short for cats.  And for us too. Meowmeto Mori.  

I once had a cat named Mr Jingles but I called him The Jing.  The Jing, like The Edge from U2.  A coyote ended up killing him.  Just fucking ate him for breakfast. Well, not all of him. His head and legs and paws were still there.  And his back.  But his whole midsection was gone when I found him in the grass.  The Jing was an indoor outdoor cat obviously.  I dont want you to think a coyote was loose in my house.  When I discovered The Jing destroyed like that, my second thought about it was actually one of relief (the first one being, obviously, horror). I thought, “Now I’m not going to have to put this poor kid to sleep.” I knew he was sick.  And just getting sicker. The vet, thank god, told me that he didnt feel a thing because the coyote instantly killed him by clamping down on his neck before, well, you know.  I brought him to the vet to make sure a human didn’t do it. Because he seemed…carved. Like with a boxcutter. While I was waiting in the waiting room to be seen by the doctor, with the remains of The Jing wrapped in a towel which I placed in a garbage bag, I fantasized about burning all of my neighbors’ homes to the ground. I probably don’t seem like an arsonist, but vengeance is mine sayeth the me.

Milo’s perfect white fur is broken up by black blotches on his back which change shape depending on the position he lays in. He’s a purring Rorschach test and the only way to fail it is by looking at cat videos on my phone while he’s right there by my feet in flesh and blood.  I’m grateful when I catch myself robotically doing this and then I give Milo a hug.

Milo jumps into my bed late at night and we rub our foreheads together. I mean, I rub mine against his but he’s into it. I dont even have to hold him against his will. I listen to him purr and I become fully thoughtless.  With an untethered, unfettered mind. It’s the most effective mediation in the history of the world. Eckhart Tolle has said, “I have known a few zen masters and all of them have been cats.”

I spent the last three minutes of 2024 listening to Billy Joel’s “Souvenir’.

As a kid, on the last day of school, I would get home, close my bedroom door behind me and put this song on while sitting on the edge of the bed. In intentional darkness.

I would reflect on the year. Reflect on my life. Wordlessly. Just being there with the song. Inside of it.

I would play it over and over until I felt sufficiently filled with its melody. With its words. With its soul. Then I’d emerge from the darkness. Reenter the world.

And last night, sitting outside amongst the crackle and hiss of fireworks, with mere minutes remaining, I felt compelled to calm my consciousness for the transition into 2025.

My mind toggled between concepts but then, right before it was too late, the universe saved me from myself and whispered in my ear, “Souvenir.”

I sat there and listened.

Wordlessly reflected.

I thought of my dad. My brother-in-law. My grandparents. Aunts and uncles. And a few college friends who left this world before they should have. I sent them all love.

With forty-five seconds left, I went inside and turned on the TV to catch the ten-second countdown and ball drop.

The camera brought its focus upon a pair of Time Square revelers.

They kissed. I smiled. Reflexively, I felt a little teary.

And that’s really all I have to say. I’m out of words once again.

Happy New Year if you’re reading this. And Happy New Year if you’re not.

Love/thanks,

GB

P.S.

A picture postcard, a folded stub
A program of the play
File away the photographs of your holiday
And your mementos will turn to dust
But that’s the price you pay
For every year is a souvenir
That slowly fades away
Every year’s a souvenir
That slowly fades away.

“Souvenir”

Billy Joel

I cry – the way that babies cry
The way they can’t deny the way they feel
Words, they climb all over you
‘Til they uncover you
From where you hide

And in this moment, I need to be needed
When my self-esteem is sinking, I like to be liked
In this emptiness and fear,
I want to be wanted
Cause I love to be loved
Oh I love to be loved…

~ Peter Gabriel

There’s a reason these lyrics are on my mind and my intention was to write about why, but the truth is, I can’t stop thinking about this little black stray kitten who lives outside. He’s just a baby and doesn’t let me get too close, but he always eats the food I leave for him.

I can’t stop thinking about him tonight because Hurricane Milton is shredding through Florida as we speak and although I’m just a bit south of the evacuation zone, we’re expected to get hit by tropical storm forces winds in the early morning and I don’t know how the little guy is going to make it. Like I said, he’s just a baby. So sweet and so tiny.

And this makes me think of all of the animals suffering needlessly. Everywhere. Always. At the hands of people. For goddamn greed and profit.

How can I be happy in this world. I didn’t use a question mark there because it’s really not much of a question. It’s more of a statement.

Not to mention all the suffering we cause each other. Well, by we I mean “we”. The royal we, as The Dude would say.

Anyway…enough of that. I’ll hope for the best as always. Just one more thing to add to the heap of stuff I’m surrendering over to the gods.

In other news, Rory, my brother-in-law, would have turned 52 today but pancreatic cancer killed him which, needless to say, left my sister and nephews in the shits. How’s that for a barrel of fucking monkeys? (Question mark looks good there, right?)

Now, back to Peter Gabriel. Earlier tonight I rewatched the first episode of the third season of The Bear. Once again, I was just in awe. Just felt so privileged to be overwhelmed by something so great.

The way Carmie’s girlfriend looks at him. The way he looks at her. The way they deal with death and longing and elation and anxiety and despair and resilience.

We all just love to be loved.

And that’s that.

Abide,

GB

P.S. By the way, I love to love as much or more than I love to be loved (that’s not from the song, that’s from my heart).

P.P.S – full lyrics to Love To Be Loved by Peter Gabriel:

So, you know how people are
When it’s all gone much too far
The way their minds are made
Still, there’s something you should know
That I could not let show
That fear of letting go

And in this moment, I need to be needed
With this darkness all around me, I like to be liked
In this emptiness and fear, I want to be wanted
Cause I love to be loved
I love to be loved [Repeat x2]
Yes, I love to be loved

I cry the way that babies cry
The way they can’t deny
The way they feel
Words, they climb all over you
‘Til they uncover you
From where you hide

And in this moment, I need to be needed
When my self-esteem is sinking, I like to be liked
In this emptiness and fear,
I want to be wanted
Cause I love to be loved
I love to be loved [Repeat x2]
Oh I love to be loved

This old familiar craving
I’ve been here before, this way of behaving
Don’t know who the hell I’m saving anymore
Let it pass let it go let it leave
From the deepest place I grieve
This time I believe

And I let go [Repeat x2]
I can let go of it
Though it takes all the strength in me
And all the world can see
I’m losing such a central part of me
I can let go of it
You know I mean it
You know that I mean it
I recognize how much I’ve lost
But I cannot face the cost
Cause I love to be loved

Yes I love to be loved
I love to be loved
[Repeat x3]

I love to be loved

I love to be loved
Yes I love to be loved

“Now wait a minute…I’d like to propose a toast…to my family. Someday soon, you’re gonna have families of your own. And if you’re lucky, you’ll remember the little moments. Like this. That were good. Cheers.”

~ Tony Soprano

I started crying, soundlessly, before he got to the end of those lines.

Last night I was watching the new documentary about David Chase, the creator of The Sopranos, and that’s how part one ended.

“What were you thinking about that made you cry?”

I wasn’t thinking about anything. The tears just appeared.

I was just sitting there watching the show, and then I was just crying out of nowhere. The thoughts, explaining it all, lagged behind and played second fiddle.

Because it’s like what Dylan sings about in that first season, “You’re going to have to serve somebody.” When it comes down to it, in the thick of things, your mind serves your heart.

And good luck controlling that. You can’t. Your heart, it turns out, is connected to the universe through marionette strings.

After I wiped my eyes I wordlessly said to myself, “I’ve been there. But only from the little boy’s perspective. My dad looked at us like that. And sometimes spoke to us like that. And then he ended up suffering so fucking fully. And so did my brother-in-law. And, also, I’ll never have a family of my own. I’ll never say those words from above to anyone. And, my dad would be proud of me for being a good guy, but I know I’m also a huge let down. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I just am who I am. For better or for worse.”

And that’s it. That’s the whole blog post. Goodnight. Don’t forget to tip your cocktail waitresses.

Fogetaboutit,

~ Gabe

P.S. So, why did I bother writing this if I’m scramming out of here before passing on any messages or making a decent point? Well, for sure it’s not for likes or reassuring words or any of that stuff (although that’s all appreciated down to my marrow). I’m just here, like it or not, to remind you of YOUR own heart and YOUR own memories. And to let you know that it’s okay to admit that there’s really no goddamn control over anything. And therefore, you’re going to have to serve somebody. Who? Your heart kiddo. And with that, be kind to yourself. You deserve it. Thank you for reading. I’m breathing with you right now. And thank you for breathing with me.

I’m sure my sister would rather me not, but I feel a conscious obligation to talk to her twin boys about their father from time to time.

Pancreatic cancer killed him two Februaries ago and his boys, who are now twenty year old men in college, have been through a lot (obviously) but are now (thankfully) doing really well.

I guess my sister doesn’t want anything or anyone to drag them back down into the abyss of themselves.

She just wants them to thrive healthily. As free from conflict from bad memories as possible.

Of course I don’t blame her at all but like I said, I feel an obligation.

I want them to know it’s okay to talk about him. Happily or otherwise.

We all tried to protect them as much as we could but I want them to know that their dad, my brother-in-law and best friend, has not been forgotten.

I casually slipped him into the conversation I was having with one of my nephews on the phone the other day.

“Can’t you just hear him saying ‘Actos’”, I said.

My nephew laughed and said, “Yes, completely!”

His dad was a pharmaceutical sales rep and one of his drugs was Actos and once he started talking about it..well, you know.

But then I got a little teary and I told my nephew that I’m just in awe of him. In awe of how he’s keeping his head up, killing it, etc etc.

He said, “Thank you but what else can I do except try to make him proud of me everyday.”

And with that, I’m sending love to you right now. You, the reader. Yes, you.

~ Gabe

P.S. The ancient Egyptians would say that a person would always be with us as long you say their name. So, with that, I’d like to say Rory Friendland.

P.P.S. No, I dont expect anyone to read what I just wrote. If I saw this on Facebook, I’d probably skip right past it too. But if you are in fact still here, with eyes dialed in on this sentence, I appreciate it so fully. I hope these words do something for your perfect little cells. For your perfect tremendous soul. Love/Thanks.

I guess if I was new to this writing thing I wouldn’t have started this piece until I knew what the hell I was writing about.

I just saw an old gray haired lady sitting alone in Panera Bread and I felt compelled to put up a new blog post about her but I knew I only had a beginning. No middle. No end.

But fuck it, I went for it anyway because does it matter? No. If you feel compelled to create something, jump into it. Throw some shit on the wall. Maybe some of it will stick. Maybe it won’t. Momenti Mori. Do it anyway. Now. Who cares what happens or what people might think. When the window opens to art, which sometimes turns out to be infrequently, squeeze something through it.

And just like that, I’ve written something worth writing. If this sparks a little flame in just one person, my whole day is justified. And if not, it’s still alright anyway because I didn’t resist the urge. And neither should you. So, unintentionally, the point of this has been revealed to be: Don’t resist the urge.

Thank you, so much, for being with me in this moment.

~ Gabe

P.S. The old gray haired lady was sitting by herself in Panera Bread this morning with one of those whipped creamed drinks dreams are made of. She was staring out the window, not looking sad, but mostly blank faced.

I knew I wanted to talk to her, just in case nobody has taking the time to within the last millennium because maybe her husband died decades ago and her children and grandchildren now live in Anchorage or wherever, so when she got up to leave, I went for it.

I quickly took out my headphones (Joni Mitchell, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways), and said to her, “Was your drink as delicious as it looked?”

“Pardon me?”

“Your drink. It looked so yummy. I was SO envious of you!”

She smiled and sort of whispered to me like it was it was a guilty secret, “Yes. It was SO good.”

After our quick exchange, she moved to a table closer to the window. And then, to my pleasant surprise, a friend of hers showed up. They were so happy to see each other. Shortly after, ANOTHER friend of hers walked in. And then another. And then another. And then another.

It was like episode of the Golden Girls and she ended up with 5-times more people than I was with. And honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

P.P.S As I punch the keys and type this out in the same Panera Bread, I can hear them all laughing together. What’s better than that? Not much.