A place at the counter.

Dear you,

The first time I went into the diner, I ordered coffee because it was the only word I was certain I could pronounce. The woman behind the counter poured it without asking a second question.

For a few weeks, coffee was all I ordered. Then toast. Then eggs. She waited without finishing my sentences.

Last month I took my daughter there. She ordered for herself, quickly, in a language that now belongs to her as much as any other. The woman brought our food and looked at me. “The usual?” she asked. I said yes. I have never liked two words more.