Every Sunday morning felt as if I were experiencing Ground Hog Day, but I liked routine. It consisted of the same exact routine of me struggling to pull my arm out from under the warmth of my blanket to reach for my phone vibrating, circling around on my crimson red nightstand that I called my treasure because I had “rescued” it from the dump. That buzzing sound always seems significantly louder as if it was maybe, four hours later. And seven thirty always seemed like four AM, no matter what time I had convinced myself would be a good time to finally resort to sleep the night before. Although I have many real and meaningful reasons to get out of bed, it was the seemingly insignificant part of my agenda that motivated me to start my Sunday morning, breakfast at Amelie’s with just me, myself, and I. Despite how oblivious I was to how this routine of having breakfast at Amelie’s that I had acquired over the past months could be significant, it did not really matter in the eyes of destiny.
Sunday, March 17th, had of course seemed to be typical, with only the expectation of things being predictable yet pleasant. Once I conquered all the the things that I labeled as “morning challenges”, I became cheery as the man who had for months been disappointing me had finally delivered words that put an extra “umph” in my step. It may not be what you are thinking. This man people call, the “weather man” does not know me personally, but I wished he was like a friend I could impress as if he had the power to grant me my wishes. If only he knew that I anticipated hearing good news from him for the past six Sunday mornings. I took so much delight in the idea of having my breakfast with the sun shining on my face in a way that should require sunglasses and that would seem rather annoying to most, sitting indian style on the white whicker chairs that Amelie had placed in front of the restaurant. They resembled the ones that I used to sit on while having breakfast with my grandmother on magical summer mornings that year I spent all of July with her sometime in my childhood. My infatuation with the sun seems rather silly, but it is a legit infatuation to me. And today, I trusted the weather man to give me that seventy eight degree, cloud free day that could allow me to finally do this. Oh, the simple things I long for.
As expected, Amelie greeted me with her genuine, warm and almost grandmotherly like hug, wearing a rose colored apron that you would think would have looked stained and wrinkled from the baking she had already done for hours by the time I saw her. This was typical. In a proud way, as if I had been the one who deserved credit for the beautiful weather, I pointed out the window and said that I was going to sit outside today. Amelie attempted to smile, but it was more like a smirk because she knew how much I had been looking forward to finally being able to sit outside after the months of the worst winter in decades. As she led me to my table, I suddenly felt embarrassed because I realized that my excitement had got me skipping. Amelie just walked with her eyes forward as if she did not notice, giggling not out loud, but I could tell by her grin almost stretching to her ears that she wanted to so badly.
It was as lovely as I had imagined. Amelie had already brought out my coffee with two sugars and put in the order for my two eggs overeasy,crispy around the edges, and my blueberry pancake with extra blueberries with a dallop of her homemade whip cream. I was trying to embrace the sun in full capacity with my eyes closed, only seeing rainbows and flashes of neon colors. However, my curiosity got the best of me and I managed to peel open one eye so I could peek to match a face to a woman’s voice who was saying her farewells to Amelie.
Though I had been adopted twenty years ago from Taiwan, the complete opposite end of the world, I still studied every Asian woman I saw as my, just maybe, potential birth mother. This woman had jet black straight, flowing hair with a shine that was enhanced by the sun’s inevitable attraction to its deep, rich color. It rested about five fingers below her shoulders and parted directly above the middle of her nose leaving her whole forehead exposed. As it traveled away from her shoulders with the light breeze, I could tell the texture was very fine and silky as I watched how each strand seemed to find its way back to its original placing before the wind had blown it, as if it had a memory and knew exactly where she had fixed it that morning.
She appeared to be very vibrant and youthful, but the sporadic single strands of silver in her hair and the dark shading around her almond shaped, pitch black eyes gave a subtle hint to her years. Her skin looked kissed by the sun, golden, or bronze-like. Her face was like a doll’s, porcelain-like, with a healthy glow and no sign of a single wrinkle. She was slender and fragile looking, yet had an automatic presence of confidence, strength, and authority. Despite our probably twenty five year or plus age difference,I found myself wishing I knew where she bought it her pearl-colored lace dress. It sounds fancy, but it seemed casual enough for the laid-back, family style restaurant that Amelie’s atmosphere created because of her sea-foam green beach sandals that wrapped up her ankles.
My curiosity overwhelmed me so much that I was not aware of how I was leaning forward trying to keep my balance, with my legs still crossed indian style, and my eyes glaring with such focus. I examined this lady as if she were a science experiment and I probably made it quite obvious I was doing so. I overheard her saying how much she adored Amelie’s cooking because it resembled the meals her mother had prepared for her that she slowly savored before she raced to catch the school bus. She mentioned that she would love for Amelie and her husband to come over sometime that week to venture out by giving her authentic Taiwanese food a try. Her tone and words seemed refreshingly genuine. It did not seem to be one of those, typical polite “Hey, we should get together sometime soon.” kind of things. She reached her small, delicate hand toward Amelie’s shoulder and gently held it there while she talked because it made her feel like her invitation might seem more personal.
Amelie seemed truly blessed by her invitation and even more simply by her presence. I could tell this by the way Amelie laced her fingers together right in front of her heart, palms touching and her torso slanting forward closer to her with almost a twinkle in her eye. After many mornings of breakfast with Amelie, I knew that anyone she adored so much was someone I would want to know.
I began to think a thought that seemed oh so silly to even myself because I have observed many ladies like herself. “But what if this time was different than the rest and it was her?” But I did nothing about it. As I watched this lady turning the corner, her last finger that was waving goodbye disappeared behind the aged-brick wall, I felt emptiness take place in my stomach and in my heart. Then I starred at my half filled, now lukewarm mug of coffee with a dried imprint of my pink lipstick pursed on the rim, eggs with a hue of green from the oxygen, and a pancake now with a candy like texture from dried maple syrup. All were untouched and unnoticed.
I did not expect this lady to be a part of my seventy eight degree Sunday morning at Amelie’s I had fantasized about for weeks as I struggled to reach my arm out from under the blankets that morning. I did not expect to feel an emptiness as I saw the aged-brick wall take her from me before my conviction led me to speak to her.
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