Happy to See You

There's an elderly man that frequents the coffee shop I go to. All the baristas know him by name and seem to beam when he enters. Invariably, they talk about the weather, or reference a conversation they had the last time he came in. 

He always sits near the window. He orders a small coffee and reads the paper until a man, not much younger than him, taps on the window to take him home.

One afternoon as he tried to make his way past me he bumped into my chair. 

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No problem," I told him.

We struck up a conversation before his friend piped up, "You're looking at a WWII vet." 

"Wow," I said.

Sometimes its a few weeks, months, a year at most before I amble back into this little coffee house. I'd come back more often but it's 3,000 miles from where I now hang my hat. I think about the man each time I walk in wondering if he's still around.

And each time I plop myself near the window he wanders in at some point. I try to keep to myself and not disturb him as he turns the pages of the New York Times with his frail hands, but I'm always secretly glad to see him.

Maybe one day I'll muster up the courage to say as much.

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