A new cafe called Honeysuckle recently opened near me, and it has made all the difference in my local existence.
I sit tucked in the back at a booth with a clear view of life as it unfolds, sandwiched between another table and the children’s room. A thoughtful addition to this cafe – where I often play with my daughter while sipping on a much-needed latte. But she isn’t with me now, and in this moment I am still, present, ever the observer.
As the sunlight filters in through oversized windows lining the wall behind me I am overcome with the notion that I am both utterly alone and not alone at all. Open to being observed by others as I observe them. Alone with the wonder of who I am in their story.
It’s wild to think that of all the people that surround us on any given day, at any given moment, we will only know a select few.
We will not know the couple at the counter in their intimate moments of getting a midnight glass of water in mismatched sleepwear. We will not know the adult children of the man with the thick frame glasses and ill-fitting suit jacket. Or whether he even has children at all.
We won’t know if the sixty-something woman he is with is a friend of his, a colleague, his wife, or his sister-in-law. We won’t know why they chose the privacy of the boardroom or if they are from South Carolina.
The young ladies in the enveloping yellow velvet chairs, their lives are on their laps. Spread out on the tiny table between them are pieces of college, travel, lovers, and futures that they share with one another so openly. So eagerly. But we won’t know the details of even their middle names.
There’s the tall boy with the woman who I imagine is his mother, who probably came out when he was around ten. She most likely enjoys pontoon boats and the view from the new windows of her lake house. They have matching haircuts I notice, as they retrieve their coffees and carry on with their day. Completely unaware of the narrative I’ve created for them.
I observe the mother with her baby, and as she sneaks away to the bathroom, alone I notice. I was rooting for her moment of solitude, happy for her, just as she returned to her husband to retrieve the baby and head back to the bathroom. Maybe nursing. Maybe changing the baby. But distinctly not alone.
They make coffee and see the people and assume the stories as well, the baristas. The one in the cherry outfit especially. I bet she has great stories and very interesting theories. I bet the red and white checkered bandanna wrapped around her head is one of dozens of lovely patterns that she carefully chooses from before her shifts here.
There are shark cups and strollers, even here.
It seems the breaks we feel we desperately need, we all struggle to take.
Wheelchairs and walkers are here too. The juxtaposition is stark, to remind you of the stages in case you forget, in case you were trying to forget. I think perhaps it’s one of those things we aren’t supposed to ignore.
All of the people we will likely never know, stand in line and take seats. They drink coffee, eat pastries, and have hushed conversations in corners.
Life unfolds here. In places like this, like old church buildings that have since become cafes, they nestle themselves into tiny towns giving lives a place to gather. To spread like butter on toast into the space and leave tiny pieces of itself on the floorboards and the walls. So that even when the doors are locked and the machines are off, life feels ever-present here.
