Jack

I and some friends for years have gone to a local diner every Wednesday morning.  Over breakfast we debate St. Louis, women, politics, and the merits of corned beef hash.

The guy who served us, faithfully, sometimes grouchily, always skillfully, was Jack.  A fiftyish, heavily tatooed biker who became, over the years, a friend and my principal reason for meals at that diner.

Jack and I developed a separate bond between us these last two years, as we discussed our battles, mine with cancer and his with heart disease.  We both became gladder with each week that we were both still there.

Now it's just me.  Jack died this week.

It's a big world and I guess Jack was just a little person in that world, but damn, not to me.  He had style, he took pride in his work, he suffered impatient dining patrons not at all.  His ability to remember what each of us wanted was simply uncanny.  For each it was the "usual" or, because one guy's usual became very popular, "the Ted."

His recall ability, in addition to being just plain cool, gave us each a sense of belonging.  But despite this, I drifted away from the usual for breakfast during the months that Jack and I faced our challenges.  To me, every Wednesday became a brand new Wednesday and I wanted to celebrate it.  He got it.

This is hard, this dying.  The world shrinks.  But the hope for a reunion grows, and if it's possible, Jack, I will sure see you on the other side.  And this time, my friend, I will pour your coffee.