Journal Stories

“Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?” the young barista with a shock of yellow hair and Harry-Potter glasses asked as he made my half-caff vanilla latte. He flashed a sweet smile, anticipating an affirmative reply. After all, who doesn’t have “a nice Thanksgiving”?    

It was the morning after the holiday, so my experience was still quite raw. I hesitated, tapping my credit card on the counter, realizing I had a decision to make: Answer honestly or glibly declare, “Yes, very nice. Did you?”

“Ya know, I really didn’t. I was alone, taking care of my dog who’s having surgery next week. A neighbor brought me a plate of food for dinner. It was kind of a sucky day, actually” is what I heard coming out of my mouth.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” he replied, the smile wiped from his face.

“Yeah, thanks. How about you?” I braced myself to endure a Norman-Rockwell moment.

It was his turn to hesitate. “It was okay,” he said, eyes cast down.  “I stayed home, too. I ate a chicken pot pie by myself. I don’t have any family around here. But that’s actually a good thing.”

I told him holidays with my birth family had often been a challenge, but I miss them now that they’re gone. He nodded as he gingerly carried a very full cup over to me. Handing him my credit card, I mentioned that I was waiting for a friend. He looked relieved, like he could stop feeling sorry for me if I at least had a friend to hang with today. Or maybe I was just relieved.

“Can I get you a glass of water?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d very much like some water, thank you,” I replied as I sat at a window table. The gesture of offering and accepting water felt like attempts to prolong our connection. Water is known to heal.

My friend arrived and, as we talked, I frequently glanced the barista’s way and smiled. He smiled back. We had shared an intimacy, a moment of truth. We’d trusted each other enough to remove our masks – a nod to our common humanity. Although I’d initially worried that my answer would depress the young man, that moment liberated both our spirits.

It wasn’t my first holiday alone, and it won’t be my last. But the authenticity embedded in the telling legitimized the value of my experience.  Perhaps his, as well.

Patricia A. Nugent (c) 2023