I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

Popular posts from this blog

A Morning at the Mountain Observatory

As dawn broke over the ridgeline, I climbed the stone steps to the mountain observatory, where the air was crisp and smelled of pine resin and distant campfires. The observatory’s metal dome loomed against the pale sky, its weathered panels dewed with mist. A lone astronomer adjusted the telescope, his breath fogging the cold metal as he whispered, “Wait for the first star to fade.” Inside the circular chamber, constellation maps glowed under dim red lights, their ancient patterns painted on the domed ceiling. I ran my fingers over a brass armillary sphere, its rings etched with zodiac signs, while a graduate student calibrated a digital spectrometer, explaining how it measured starlight. Near the window, a hiker sipped coffee from a thermos, watching the Milky Way dissolve into the morning’s blue. Sunlight spilled through the observatory’s open slit, casting a golden beam over the telescope’s lens. The astronomer pointed to a faint smudge in the sky. “That’s the Andromeda Galaxy,” he ...
Read more

A Morning at the Mexican Street Food Market

As dawn painted the plaza in soft coral, I wandered into a bustling Mexican street food market, where the air hummed with the sizzle of chorizo and the earthy scent of roasted chilies. Sunlight filtered through papel picado banners, casting diamond-shaped shadows over stalls draped in vibrant serapes. A vendor in a straw sombrero flipped tortillas on a scorching comal, their doughy aroma mixing with the sweet tang of pineapple grilling for al pastor. Near the tamale stand, an abuela wrapped masa in banana leaves, her nimble fingers tucking in shreds of pork before tying each parcel with twine. "Las mañanas son para saborear," she smiled, handing me a warm tamale. I peeled back the leaf to reveal steamy corn dough dotted with green chiles, its flavor melting on my tongue. A mariachi band tuned their trumpets nearby, their brass instruments glinting in the sun as a stray dog begged for scraps under a taco cart. Sunlight grew stronger, warming the cobblestones where children cha...
Read more