My Uncle’s Favorite Coffee Shop

Serum of steam rising from the cup, what comfort to be known personally by Barbara, her perfect pouring hand and starched ascot, known as the two easy eggs and the single pancake, without saying. What pleasure for an immigrant— anything without saying. My uncle slid into his booth. I cannot tell you—how I love this place. He drained the water glass, noisily clinking his ice. My uncle hailed from an iceless region. He had definite ideas about water drinking. I cannot tell you—all the time. But then he’d try. My uncle wore a white shirt every day of his life. He raised his hand against the roaring ocean and the television full of lies. He shook his head back and forth from one country to the other and his ticket grew longer. Immigrants had double and nothing all at once. Immigrants drove the taxis, sold the beer and Cokes. When he found one note that rang true, he sang it over and over inside. Coffee, honey. His eyes roamed the couples at other booths, their loose banter and casual clothes. But he never became them. Uncle who finally left in a bravado moment after 23 years,to live in the old country forever, to stay and never come back,