The man was bitter. All the years of these wars and damaged battles has taken its toll. Another morning outside a coffeehouse, just another newspaper.
As he glances heavily at “hippies” and soft hearted people, he doesn’t want to know them. Much rather, he wants to be left alone.
With his paper and etched on scowl, he drinks deep of his endless coffee cup, peering over its brown stained lid, wishing they’d all just go away.
Maybe to some sort of hippie tent camp and get away from his beloved town.
Cursing under his breath as young adults pass by, thinking that these two just read his mind.
Old, crotchety, weather beaten, and tired of the same old crusty drapes his house has.
Maybe I should just go over to him, introduce myself as a hippie, sit myself down next to him and drink our coffees together.
He would love that.
All the glares and stares backed with his unexpected scowls, maybe he’s just questioning.
Even longing to tell his story to some young ears, if they even care to hear.
He’s always been good with keeping distance, seemingly there, but just inches away from arms distance. Let them have their long hair, head bands, and vintage trappings.
This man is missing out on more than just conversations.
“As long as I have my coffee and my chair out of the way, I’ll be safe from these crazies.”
I notice I’m doing just the same.
Observing, enraptured, and content with my solitude of distance.
As his gaze catches to me, I’m not ashamed to look his way. After all, no matter what he keeps making himself believe, or muttering under his breath secretly, I’m well aware that he is loved.
Raising my over used paper cup slightly to the sky, all he can do is purse his lips, and look back down at his paper.
And I, to mine.
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Ty
December 29, 2010
No new posts since August?!
Write! Write! Write!