Coffee Shop Sessions

In loving memory of my family…

My grandfather
was a man of routine—
ordered black coffee,
soup and salad,
steak and potatoes,
said Grace before his meal,
and left room for dessert
at buffets on the other side of town.

A routine meal,
to this day,
remembered
as my favorite meals with him.

My dad loved Alaskan crab legs,
with a side of melted butter,
while Mom ordered chicken
at a seafood restaurant.
She never offered to pay,
while Auntie told us,
“Don’t take anything for granted—
she should say ‘Thanks.’”

A routine occasion,
to this day,
remembered
as our family meals together.

The holidays suddenly arrived—
every holiday—
as our family rushed off to Sunday service.

It wasn’t a last-minute decision,
but was the calendar right? Always arriving late,
we discreetly sneaked into the pews.
With a family of five, surely no one would notice.
But they did. They always noticed.

A routine holiday,
to this day,
remembered
as our holidays together.

Every year,
every holiday,
every birthday—
the same restaurants,
the same routine,
the same church service.

But we, at least, gathered
in the familiar ways we knew
what was to come.
We could count on those moments—
those familiar moments.

Now I look back,
without the chance to relive
those core memories.
Without the togetherness,
without the bickering,
without a chance of reconciling.
No chasing each other around the yard,
no climbing up the tree—my favorite tree.
All that is left are memories,
while we isolate from our distant family.

We pass on the memories,
while making new ones:
new choices of restaurants,
holidays, vacations,
and promises of punctuality
(but who are we kidding—we’re always late).

And yet, some things will remain.
I’ll keep the same dessert
in honor of my grandparents,
whose struggles and sacrifices for our family
deserve to be rewarded
with a slice of warm apple pie.