I used to solve crossword puzzles in an old café
nestled in the corner of Forty-Fifth and Foster.
The stain-glass sunlight would softly slide
across the rows,
down the columns,
and in between the maple wood chairs
that never seemed to stay still.

Huddled in the dark shadow of the setting sun,
I drowned myself in a black sea of espresso. I thought

that the neon welcome sign would hide me
because it was back then, before I learned
that the silent old lady knew every inch of her home.
The soft acoustic of footsteps traveled,
across the rows,
down the columns,
and in between the dark oak tables,
that now seemed like a prison.

She gave me a cherry-scented hug,
and I looked up to find
a chocolate caramel latte
with a little drawing of a penguin on the sleeve.

I was there when she left,
in an aging Victorian church four minutes away.
As the smiling priest laid her last words to rest,
a warm summer breeze floated
across the rows,
down the columns,
and in between the mahogany pews,
and it smelled like home.

Today I find myself outside the remains of an antique café
nestled in the corner of Forty-Fifth and Foster,

The door is missing a doorknob.

And I find myself crying on a sunny day in April.