"It was cold and dreary," was what the 73 year old
man entering the warm coffee shop said when asked about his walk.
This man was adorned in a long trench coat
that sheltered him enough from the rain,
yet never kept him very warm.

"The regular."
he added, warmly with a smile that’d been earned
for the whole twelve years he’d visited that shop.
But from behind him, came a man,
48,
holding nothing but a broken back
and a sullen expression in his hands,
all to keep a stable pace.

He looked at least twice his age,
even older than the kinder gentleman in the trench coat.
He did not have a trench coat.
He was soaking wet,
and did not cast a greeting to the service doorbell as it rang.

He found the closest seat within distance,
and if you looked close enough, you’d see the rain
evaporating off his cold skin in that warm coffee shop.
And he sat down and remembered that’s where he met his wife.
Twelve (times two) years ago.
And he looked at the neon sign in the window
that read
"Millie’s"
and remembered that’s what he named his daughter.
And he remembered the moment
that his wife let out her first scream,
and how he “had to take a breather”
which only meant that he had to cry because the pain
was so beautiful to him.

And he remembered holding his baby girl in his hands and saying
"Millie, like the diner."
"Except it’s not a diner…" said his wife.
And he remembered in the following days she became like the rain
still beautiful, refreshing
yet despondent and not the same.

And he remembered the night she broke twelve dishes in the sink
and bled like his grandfather in the World War.
And how ever since that night
she refused to hold their baby girl.
He remembers one morning,
though, she was looking out the window
at their two year old girl,
the sun shone and made little fairies glow
and his wife said:
"Watch her run, can you feel it?"
And he was certain he did.

He was certain that he loved her and she loved her and
she loved him and she loved herself,
but he was wrong,
because needless to say she lost.
And when Millie was eight years old,
she helped her father pack a suitcase and asked where he was going
and he said:

And when he said

Millie smiled and assumed it was a surprise.

And as Millie threw her father’s suitcase in the back of the car,
her father revved the engine
and took off without a second glance.
Except he remembered looking back
at his eight-year-old prize,
and how he knew the torture of the welling tears
in her eight-year-old-eyes.

And he saw his wife break the dishes
and heard her say: “Watch her run, can you feel it?”
And he was certain that he could feel it.
He could feel his lungs on fire,
just like his daughter’s.
And the sun was out
but no fairies were there to help her.

And he was back in the coffee shop,
where a young waitress gleamed
and she looked like the rain
and held a sullen expression
to keep her pain contained.
And to try and get tips,
she wrote a short note.
"Have a nice midnight breakfast, and I swear, I’m not the owner."

And then he remembered signing her name
only twenty one years ago,
the waitress’s name,
written on her birth certificate
was the same name glowing in the window.