Little Corners

A Thursday evening.

Simple things satisfy me. Trusty wood chairs. A long counter with red leather stools. A table big enough to spread out my belongings. A single daffodil open toward me.

Inside this joint, milkshakes are served with thin metal spoons long enough to wipe a tall glass clean. Cake slices sleep safely under a glass lid until they are ready to be chosen. The soft hum of Ella Fitzgerald snakes through the air. A little boy with a bowl cut walks past me, pridefully holding a book. Every few minutes, when he finishes his book, his mamma lifts him out of his high chair and he goes to the library in the back of the store to select a new one. He presents each new book to his family who marvel with excitement at his new discovery. I think they are speaking Finnish or something in that realm.

Before this, I am at a staff training for my job (bilingual Reggio preschool) where we talk about communication. We talk about a time that we felt we mattered to someone. We share what they did that make us feel that way. We ask what this experience of mattering said about what is important to us. We do this in partners, where one person listens and when the other person is done talking, the first person repeats back what they heard. I feel this training should be taken by everyone including world leaders. This workshop is in Spanish and I understand most of it.

I go to a bar and I play music with real life people who have nowhere to rush off to. I am one of three women, and the rest are men, mostly between the ages of 50 and 70+. I am okay with this. People here learn your name and make eye contact. The older men don’t creep me out, they are gentlemen. One gives me his pick when he sees I don’t have one, another offers a chair when he notices I am flustering to find a place for my jacket. When I hear the fiddle, I am sent beyond myself. It says this is home for now, breathe. I sing a song in a different key, a song about mystery. When it starts I teach the chords until people seem comfortable. I know just the instruments I want to solo and I call them out one by one — fiddle, harmonica, dobro, piano. I am an arranger. Doug the bass player and I harmonize.

I am not ashamed of what I love. I find my little corners and I go. I marvel at the vastness I contain. I smooth my hand across these old wooden walls of the milkshake joint that have kept intact for so many years. I open the drawers of a large dresser to find tools and little objects inside. I look down at the penny-tiled floor. I turn my head up towards the open shelves scattered with old medicine bottles, antique clocks, and toy cars. I thank them and I thank all the people in the old photos on the walls who wear little boat shaped hats and ironed uniforms and read the paper.

I want to stay here, at this milkshake joint, because it’s taking me to another time. I listen closely to figure out who is singing now — from the first few notes it could still be Ella but now I think it is Etta or maybe Aretha. Now I hear “Misty.” The piano chassés into octaves. Where am I? Brooklyn? New Orleans? 1950? An employee eats an ice cream cone on his break. Everything feels perfect in here. I feel content to experience it completely by myself. A man walks in wearing a beret. Golden sconces illuminate the soda fountain. I discover my notebook has a page holder in the perfect shade of green.