The home health aide was already there when I arrived. Mom was having a good day, so I slipped out for an hour.
I walked to the diner on Harbor Street. Same cracked vinyl stools, same smell of grease and old coffee.
The waitress looked up and said, 'Black coffee, two sugars, and a side of extra napkins for your hands?'
I hadn't been there in four years. Not since Dad passed. She remembered.
On the counter sat a pickle jar full of buttons. All mixed, no one ever sorted them. I used to line them up by color while waiting for my father to finish his eggs.
I just nodded and sat down. She poured the coffee without asking if I wanted cream.
The little things, I think. A woman who sees a habit and holds it across years. A jar of buttons sorted by nobody. A mom who still knows my face.
Some days that's enough.