The sheets become cool in that hour between the blackest dark and the sunrise.
This comfort shouldn't go away; it's what makes sleep dreamy, and it's what gives you hope that it will never go away. Really, it's placed in the repository of your memories that comes back to you when your life flashes before your eyes. That innocence, that pause, when the world stands still, is the one you want to revisit if you're ever allowed to do so. You just want to stay in bed for as long as you can, especially if nothing is pending in your schedule.At some point, you must rise from the proverbial ashes and seize the day. That begins with a quick drive to the coffee place. Not for coffee, but the socialness of coffee. It's what causes complete strangers to have such meaningful interactions that, by the end of a month, they're already engaged to be married. But not you, no, your engagement is of a different kind. The man is sitting there with a spiritual billboard over his head that says, 'Although I look unapproachable, I need to be heard.'
You sit close to him so as not to impede his personal space. If he senses your intention, he'll engage you. It doesn't take long before he asks if you're a Kahuna or something, to which you reply with a self-effacing laugh. He understands that you'll never say it out loud, but he knows you are.
"The war I fought is over for me. I did my part," he says. "But the war in my head, in my heart, in my body; that's not over."
"You want peace," you confirm for him. You don't tell him.
"I can't ever be the me I was," he begins. "But there are days I wish I could go back in time and hide in that me from before. I wish I didn't have a heart that gave me honor."
"Why do you come here?" I ask him. "What are you looking for here?"
"My house used to be here, right on this spot," He points to the neatly tiled floor. "Before it was this coffee shop, it was my house. This was my home, my peace, my center. It was my piko."
"It may not matter in the larger scheme of things, but I want to thank you," you tell him. He looks at you funny, wondering what it is about him that you should thank him for. "I'm one person who didn't go to war, and I'm one person who can't imagine what that must have been like, but if you'll accept my thanks for what you did, and what you gave up to do it, I think it will heal you and help you move on."
He goes quiet because no one has said anything like what you've said to him. He knows you're not being facetious because otherwise, people are buying him a bagel with a coffee that costs a few dollars. Or, it's the opposite. Employees or management staff are asking him to leave, or customers are complaining about the aroma, and he has to go either way.
"Your house is gone," you tell him. "Your family is long gone, as well as your old neighbors and friends. Your peace has been waiting for you all this time, but because you're attached to what was once here, you can't see it. I can help you. You just have to be ready. Are you ready?"
It takes him a few seconds to reply, because he's gotten used to the coffee shop and change can be frightful. "Will they be there on the other side?" He asks.
"Everyone you've ever known will be there," you tell him. "Some will be along, eventually. When the sun rises and bathes this coffee shop in its light, you'll go and you'll be with those you love."
He opens his hands and reaches across the table, and you take his hands in yours. "I'll be here until the end, my brother. Don't worry."
The sun rises over the mango trees in Kaimuki until it shines into the establishment. He's holding on for dear life, but because he's a spirit, you don't feel it. Like fingers stretching out, the beams of light reach across the floor until they touch both of you. The warmth is all-consuming, and the light is blinding until it's not. He's gone. Gone to his peace, to that safe place before he became a man in the stark, unforgiving reality of war. There's a moment for you, too, when you become overwhelmed with tears because you suddenly see the delicate reality of life. A lot of it isn't fair. It isn't kind, but somewhere in there are people like yourself doing things as simple as saying thank you, knowing it's two words that can help someone transition to a peaceful afterlife. It's what you're meant to do.
The owners of the shop try to pay you or offer you complimentary coffee and pastries indefinitely, but you refuse. You give to give, not to take, because it's not about what you can receive. What you need will come.
You return home, knowing that even though it's the next day, the cool air under the sheets is waiting to lend you the kind slumber that heals your soul, your heart. It keeps the gift that you won't publicly acknowledge pure and unwavering, until it's called for again. After all, it's not every day that a lost spirit is healed and sent on its way in a coffee shop in Kapahulu.
Credit: @stockcake.com
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