Stan is a barista at a coffee shop where I hang out.  He didn’t give me permission to take his photo so I found an image on the internet which will do nicely.

We’ve talked a lot over the months.  And mostly I can’t remember what we said.  I used to think that such forgetting was a problem … but it’s not.

I feel comfy with Stan when we talk.  And isn’t that a marvelous word?  Far sweeter than “comfortable”.

There’s a quietness and a slowness in his speaking, and a sense of life’s mystery.  Stan hasn’t figured everything out.

I guessed he was 30.  A few days ago he told me 25.  Old enough to be wise.

Sometimes I see Stan engaged in lively conversation with other folks – in Dutch.  So I have no idea what they’re talking about.  When it’s just him and me, our words matter.  It’s life stuff.  Not throwaway sentences about societal life, ones that often mean nothing.

Stan has a problem with his lungs, or thereabouts in his body.  Lots of doctor visits.  But he doesn’t let himself drown in despair or unfairness or being bitter.

I look forward to opening the coffee shop door and seeing Stan behind the counter.  If he’s super busy, we won’t have time to talk.

But then there are those other days