getting coffee that last morning in manhattan

i walk around the corner to

buy a coffee, our last few

minutes before driving up

north, she is sad to say

goodbye, though she knows

goodbye, how many schools

before the age of 5? and

languages learned

every home has stories,

some we are happy to

erase, some we bury

away, carry that note

written, a mommy i

love you, in your wallet,

still

the curtainless windows

of her top-floor flat look

out to the empire state, she

tells me of pride marching

by and the days she was

snowed in, only neon and

white, and quiet

and all the dinner parties

and furniture shared and

books shared, now splitting

silverware, trying to

remember what belongs

to whom

i ask the barista for a large

americano for me and

cold brew for her

do you have a loyalty card?

i say no and he asks if i

want to start one

i say, as a san diegan who

is always ready for a chat,

oh i wish, but i live miles

away and am only here to

help my daughter move

he says how sad, he loves

new york, but hey, new life

new adventure and i agree

and since no one is behind

me and i'm waiting for

the coffees

i tell him i love his necklace

turquoise?

he tells me he is a healer

and turquoise brings mental

clarity, he tells me he

sources his stones in arkansas

and tequisquiapan

and he notices my lava stone

at my throat and i tell him

it was a gift from my daughter

and we share a moment of

silence, each holding our

stones and he hands me

my coffees

and i thank him for the

coffees but really i am

thanking him for the chat

and this moment brief

and true and this last little

glimpse of manhattan magic