Something about the hustle and bustle of restaurant service at breakfast is comforting. The murmurs of conversation, the clanking of silverware, the smells wafting from the kitchen, everyone moving about here to there and all over, just barely missing a collision, all with a smile for every face.
When I was little, my dad would take me to a breakfast place near our house and, side by side at the counter, I could feel his peace in the chaos that was that little establishment. This big, intense man lightened up around all his edges while munching on a ham and cheese omelette, listening to the local gang of regulars argue about some point or another. It’s something that has stayed with me long since those days at Veli’s Coffee Cup.
I never really examined my comfort in your friendly neighborhood breakfast joint. We just went for more breakfast outings than your average Joe. Until the other day. News of the worst kind descended on our family…again. As we found ourselves barely keeping our heads above this latest wave to strike, a seemingly innocent text arrived to the inbox with a little ping.
“Can we do breakfast tomorrow?”
Of course we can. And we did. In the hustle and bustle of our friendly neighborhood breakfast home, we ate and somehow managed to feel peace in all that chaos. Maybe it was the smile of the owners, who recognized our crew with a special hug for our smallest. Maybe it was the familiar booth and smells that brought us back to a moment. Maybe it was the level of chatter that did just enough to dim the noise in each our minds.
For a small while, we were on a wave of normalcy, bolstered by the waves all around us lifting us up. Knowing that for a moment in time, we were just eating breakfast and shoring up our stock of peace.