Sometimes it feels like I'm walking through a hazy dream.
As I walked out of that little motel room, my home away from home here in this little railroad town of Bethlehem, and walked through the surprisingly chilly daybreak air and across the desolate parking lot to the greasy spoon, I had just enough energy to marvel at the simplicity, if mundanity, in which my working midlife operates. The grayish peach-pink of the coming dawn making visible the crystalline mist that teases my face reinforces the belief of walking through this hazy dream, instantly replaced though not unwelcomed by the bright, tired cheer of the "good mornings" by the locals at the diner, their warmth outdone only by the enormous, ever-burning gas griddle that centers the place and our lives for the moment. Smokey Robinson on the overhead speakers melodically setting a mood of what it's like to lose love, an elderly waitress shares photos of her grandson with a younger, politely impatient dishwasher, all reminding me of my unnecessarily reminded wishes to have a day off with my beloved boys and perhaps sometime later be a most fortunate fellow and catch my aged reflection in the glistening eyes of a brown-eyed girl...
Boy, the bad coffee feels so good going down, makes me happy to know it isn't a dream. Well, maybe not all of it.
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