I was given the sort of advice on choosing a wife that you just can't buy from any therapist. I also learned the history of our waitress, Ida, and how to make her laugh till her eyes squint and you can't help but laugh along with her.
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I've been at this counter many times before, sitting alone with the latest issue of The New Yorker, sipping coffee and keeping my eyes down; if someone sits next to me, I ignore them as politely as I can. But this morning I looked up and discovered that the entire place was shimmering with light.
The paper napkin dispenser, the stacks of coffee-stained cups and saucers, the cart of bused silverware and crumpled sugar packets, the loose change sitting idly on the faux-granite counter--all of it alive and vibrant; all of it singing its heart out for anyone with ears to hear.
And I got to meet these two old sages, either of whom could have been my father, and listen to their psalms. I got to see the creases on their faces and hands, the worn pathways of so many forgotten journeys.
I got to shake those hands, strong hands that have touched and held so much, that have built ingenious devices, folded newspapers, signed checks, wiped away tears; I got to shake hands with these men and feel as if we were brothers joined in some secret society of solitary diners.
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Now I know.