With slow steps the old man shuffles through the door and eyes the room for familiar faces. He's early so he takes a seat at the end of the long table where his friends will soon gather. The waitress brings him a heavy mug filled with steaming black coffee and he smiles and says, "the usual," as she asks what he'll have to eat.
He thought how for 65 years he ate the same thing every morning; oatmeal with a couple of strips of bacon and steaming black coffee placed before him by loving hands that were up and about cooking his breakfast while he was getting ready for the day. She would hand him his paper and kiss him on the head as she placed it on the table there before him before sitting down with her slice of buttered toast, apricot jam and her own cup of coffee.
It was their morning ritual. They would sit quietly, him slowly turning pages as he read the news and her catching glimpses of the headlines from across the table....
The salty moisture beaded on the rim of his eye as his mind wandered while waiting for the waitress to bring his breakfast and the other old men to come and sit and joke and talk about their ailments and complain about Washington and the weather.
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