Carrying the Scars

Im a writer.

Never forget that.

I seek refuge a couple times a week in a local cafe to work and watch the world. Writing in a cafe is so cliche but I kind of love it! The coffee is astounding here, too. It’s from a brand called Counter Culture.

It’s the people with the years under their belt. They are the best to watch. They inspire me most. I watch the greying men and women leave the cafe with a smile on their face. I hear them say goodbye with a hug, kiss, or handshake. I see something in them that exists in my 6 year old Jacob. It’s a sparkle of life, it’s a fire inside them. Its joy.

I know as much about them as I do about the last breeze that coursed through crape myrtle sitting outside the cafe. Yet I cannot help but consider the scars. You know. You know the scars that a lived life marks us all with. There are days when swimming up through those scars can feel like breaking through a bog that just drags you back down and chokes you. Fills your lungs with the muck of the past and sinks you to the bottom of something much worse than death.

Still, they smile. Even those with deep sorrowful trenches cut into their face by time and life. They walk with a salt and pepper swagger. They make a silent confession to the world around them that LIFE IS WORTH LIVING. Better yet that it can be joyful despite the divorce, the heartbreak, the loss of a child, the addiction, the failure, the struggle, the pain.

They pay me no mind and I like it that way. You can only get these kinds of glimpses into humanity when no one is looking. It will be my little secret. The way they inspire me. The way I marvel at how they carry the scars.