The Café on 44th

Reflections on the Past Month and Dreams of the Future

Sep 01, 2024

I spent August in a space of quiet stillness, enveloped by the comforting scent of warm shortbread and caramel tea. It was a month where I found myself stepping into my late twenties, feeling both introspective and somewhat unprepared for it all. I watched silently as chapters in my life began to unfold and close, as relationships evolved, and as priorities subtly rearranged themselves, with and without my active involvement.

Though I scribbled down countless notes, none were shared – choosing instead to hold them close. And while I’d love to share each one in such vivid detail that you’d feel them with me, I have only about twenty minutes before I find myself standing in front of my workspace, a building likely surrounded by the scent of old coffee, body heat, and fresh pretzels, whose salt sharpens the air as the humidity ebbs and flows.

I could complain about its scent, but over the last few weeks, I’ve become acutely aware that I carry the lingering aroma of ginger tea and a buttery croissant on my lips anytime I walk through the familiar paths. Like most of my recent days, I’ve just finished a quick brunch at a café a few blocks away, hence the title.

It’s nothing remarkable, average enough that it might be overlooked, but its ambiance reminds me of the place I visited on the Upper West Side. I’ve only been there a handful of times, mainly for its convenience, but over the last few visits, I’ve noticed the faces around me slowly transforming from unfamiliar strangers to those with whom I now share small laughs and casual conversations.

“As we discussed the recent weather, she remarked that it felt as if the earth was holding onto the same breaths we all share, pausing together in a collective moment of stillness.”

Our conversations never stray too far – a blend of popular yet obscure interests that somehow resonate with our shared experiences. For instance, there’s a worker I’ve grown exceptionally fond of. We bonded over our mutual love of linguistics and climatology—an oddly fitting combination during one of my first visits, but today’s conversation took a different turn.

As we discussed the recent weather, she remarked that it felt as if the earth was holding onto the same breaths we all share, pausing together in a collective moment of stillness. She’s always had a way with words, fitting as she’s a literary major, where even the simplest observation is infused with poetic depth; but imagine that—the earth echoing our collective sighs and hidden tensions. How complex, yet oddly comforting. As we spoke, I recalled a thought I’d documented in an entry titled “Earth’s New Beginning,” where I explored something similar, saying,

“Despite the increasing frequency, we consistently find ourselves caught off guard by the unpredictable fury of natural disasters, the sudden shifts of tectonic plates beneath us, or the relentless barrage of extreme weather events. Lately, I've been contemplating the reasons behind this phenomenon and reflecting on what insights the earth may be trying to convey about our relationship with it. I ponder where our missteps lie or where we've faltered. Why is it that we only seem to acknowledge our impact when the earth shows signs of distress or pain? I wonder if we've reached a point of no return or if we've arrived just in time—whether we can embrace a new beginning or if we're hurtling towards an inevitable ending.”
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“For the sake of my own peace of mind, I’ve told myself that while some things may hold hidden meanings or profound messages, sometimes things just are…”

Since writing this piece, I have to be honest and say that while Earth’s challenges have continued to grow into concerns, I’ve entered a space where I allow certain thoughts to fade before they can linger long enough to take root. For the sake of my own peace of mind, I’ve told myself that while some things may hold hidden meanings or profound messages, sometimes things just are—and even if they’re not, I don’t have to be the one who imposes meaning on them.

While I do cherish a deep message, the kind of insightful read that stirs emotions almost too complex to fully grasp—even if I’m the one who wrote it—I also find solace in the simplicity of everyday moments. Like remembering a recent trip to the grocery store, where the scent of frost lingered in the air, or recalling a conversation with old friends where their laughter sounded exceptionally light.

Nowadays, my mind often revolves around the scenarios I imagine or daydream about. On quiet bus rides or peaceful walks with friends, my thoughts drift to a future left-handed daughter who has yet to come into my life. I ponder whether I’d name her Norah or if we’d choose a name that feels right in the moment, guided by my future partner’s preference.

I imagine her asking questions that will remind me she’s unmistakably my child. What if she’s curious about why I drink tea every morning? What if she wants to do it with me? I picture her waking at dawn, her tiny feet padding softly across the floor in her little brown or beige pajamas, drawn by the familiar sound of me in the kitchen. Her eyes would be heavy with sleep, but she’d manage a drowsy smile as she snuggles close, drifting back to sleep on my shoulder, the room filled with soft, gentle snores.

I think about how I’d want her life to be simple, even though we know life itself is anything but. I wonder if sage green will become her favorite color or if she’ll develop a fondness for the scent of maple, just as I have. Will she inherit my fruit allergy, or will her father’s genetics protect her from it? We won’t know until she’s older, and one day, I might receive a call from her teacher saying, “The reaction was mild, just a tickle in her throat, so we gave her some Benadryl.” I imagine the relief I’d feel, thinking back to my own junior high days when one bite of my favorite fruit led to the most intense throat scratch I’d ever experienced. And then the weeks that followed, during which I continued to eat apples, peaches, and plums, unaware that they were the source of my discomfort.

Some days, I find myself thinking about the son I might have, a surprise that would only reveal itself at the very moment of his birth. I imagine those first moments after delivery, when, until the final push, I’d be convinced I was having a daughter. I’d glance at my partner and wonder which of the ten girl names we’d considered might work for a boy, as the one name we had still felt somewhat uncertain. I wonder if he’d have a dimple on his left cheek like me, if he’d learn English or Spanish first, and if he’d be a mama’s boy or if I’d find myself eclipsed by the coolness of his father. Would they bond over bedtime stories, sneaking past his bedtime because “Daddy said I could stay up until 8:30”? I don’t have a name for him yet, so for now, I will call him Little One.

“As overwhelming as the world can sometimes be with its pessimism, many of us hold onto our imagination as a lifeline.”

As I grow older, my mind gravitates toward tangible aspirations rather than abstract notions—things like launching a book club, moving to a new state, and having children. It’s interesting, too, because this shift began around the time I read a fellow writer’s thoughts about the decline of imagination in our world. I wanted to agree, but something in me resisted—because, as overwhelming as the world can sometimes be with its pessimism, many of us hold onto our imagination as a lifeline.

I found some truth in the article, as we might not be the generation dreaming of life on Mars or envisioning the wildly impossible, but our imaginations haven’t withered. They’ve evolved, finding new ways to breathe life into our hopes and dreams.