Page 23 of Quintessentially

“Hi, mister.”

I can’t help but grin. “Hi. You sure are big getting on that stool.”

“Yep,” she says, sitting straight and picking up her toast. Forgetting me, she speaks to Joyce, “Mommy says I can buy lunch, but I like yours better.”

Joyce taps the counter in front of her. “Let me get this gentleman his coffee, and you finish your breakfast. Then you can help me in the back making a sandwich for you.”

“Really?” The little girl’s eyes grow as wide as saucers. “I can help?”

“You sure can,” Joyce says. She turns to me. “Black coffee, coming up.”

I can’t explain the pull, but I long to see the little girl’s smile. There’s something about her voice and grin that is entrancing. As Joyce pours my coffee, I turn to the girl. “So you like Joyce’s cooking?”

The girl nods with a mouthful of toast and jam.

“I do too.”

After she swallows, she says, “My mommy and grandma are good cooks too.” She shakes her head. “I’m not going to cook when I’m big.”

“You’re not?” Joyce asks. “Why?”

“Cause I’m gonna sell stuff and make lots of money so Mommy doesn’t have to.”

I nod.

As Joyce smiles, she asks, “Are you going to finish that oatmeal?”

The little girl nods again as she scrapes the bowl with her spoon, getting the last bites. Next, she uses two hands to lift the glass, and finishes the last drops of milk. Placing the glass on the counter, she sighs and grins. There’s a white milk mustache on her upper lip.

“Now can I help?”

“You sure can,” Joyce says, picking up the dishes as the little girl climbs down from the stool.

She smiles at me and waves her fingers. “Bye, mister.”

“May I ask your name?”

The child looks at Joyce who nods.

“My name is Molly, and I’m five.”

I chuckle at her willingness to share not only her name but also her age. “My, you are big. I met another five-year-old last night. Do you know a girl your age named Amber?”

Molly nods faster. “She’s my friend.”

“I bet you’re a great friend.”

“Come on, Molly,” Joyce says, “Your mom is waiting.”

Molly disappears behind the counter. As I take a sip of my coffee, I notice her peering around the end. When I smile, she speaks, “Mister, Mommy says it’s best to use names. What’s your name?”

My smile is bigger than I can recall in years. Molly is an absolute gem. Getting off the stool, I go to her. Crouching down as I did with Amber, I look into her eyes and say, “My name is Dax. Your mommy sounds like a good mommy.”

“Hi, Dax. My mommy is the best.”

“Come on, Molly,” Joyce calls.

I stand and watch as they disappear into the diner’s kitchen. Back at my seat, another waitress, who introduces herself as Cheryl, refills my cup. She’s busy with the room and my thoughts go to the things on my agenda at work. Today’s Friday and I thought I’d be back to Chicago this weekend. It would take a little rearranging, but I believed I could continue virtually for a few more days.

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