It is Thursday morning, 11 a.m. Colleyville, Texas. Four people sit down at a coffee shop table, with scones, and hot drinks. They are dressed up. One, an older woman in a maroon pantsuit, carries a gift in a pretty bag. Two others, middle aged with page boy haircuts, have cards. The man, the youngest of the four, has nothing. They look sullen. They are silent. The man stares straight ahead, out the window. He has a purple pocket square in his suit jacket. I presume they are a family, having a little coffee to celebrate something. No one speaks for a while.
Then, the man rubs his forehead. “This is the third person I’ve buried on my birthday,” he says. “Joey was the first one. He was 40. Charlie Williams, Charles.”
“That’s the one I couldn’t think of,” his mom says.
“And then, today, John,” he finishes.
After a bit, they give him the cards and he opens them.
Pamela Gwyn Kripke 