Saturday afternoon I decide to drive downtown because you once suggested that I try an adventure at a coffee shop in order to live life and not just survive it. There are three to choose from all within two blocks of one another. I decide to try this one first because it is the one I hear people talk of the most.

Instead of adventure, I find old people and groups of women being overly social for the sake of gossip. I choose a table in the back, a place where I can watch and observe. A mother and small child enter. As the mother orders, the child sings at the top of her lungs to no one in particular and dances in circles at the same speed of the ceiling fans. She gazes at their multi-colored streamers that move the air. They mesmerize her and she mesmerizes me. On the wall are abstract artworks by artists of unknown origin. The menu exists only on a blackboard on the wall across the room. The atmosphere here disappoints me. Blaring country music and cappuccino just don't mix in my opinion. An old man asks for ketchup. Unfamiliar faces come and go - each with unique features. A young solitary man, wool cap, and baggy pants, eyes of an artist, orders his mochachino to go. He walks out the back door. Lunchtime rush, some people read, and others talk. The waiter rushes back and forth, always with a silly grin. The gold -yellow canopy over the sidewalk is blocking the sunlight. Laughter drifts across the room from every corner except the one I occupy. Magazines and newspapers litter the cold metal tables. I want to write some poetry but my mind is blank. The atmosphere is keeping my creative juices from flowing. Tables are wiped, dishes clink and clatter. Here I sit, writing of the matter. I don't think I will come back to this place. This place and I do not agree with each other. You wouldnot like it either.

I sit at a table in the middle by the wall. I order a Chocolate Steamer with skim milk. I pull my Literature text and a highlighter out of my burgundy backpack and begin to study. Poets of the Seventeenth Century: John Donne, Ben Johnson and Andrew Marvell. I become so involved in my reading that my drink grows cold. The waitress offers to reheat it. I thank her and think that I must remember to leave a nice tip. I finish my studies and decide that I should do something to appease the growling beast within my stomach. I choose a turkey and Swiss cheese croissant. Water with a slice of lemon. As I eat I read from the antique book of Byron I bought at an auction. Just the fact that it's old makes me happy.I love old books.

The bell on the door rings and I look up. I find myself wishing it was you, but knowing that it will never be. I think of how it would be if you were here. We could sit and talk of everything and nothing and poetry and music. I can't remember what type of music you liked. I wish I could have found out. The lunchtime rush begins and I decide to move to the terrace to escape the noise. I go up the flight of stairs and find it empty. The lighting here is softer and there are no windows. The booth in the corner beckons me to it. I sit at the large round table noticing that all the salt and peppershakers are different. I laugh inwardly at that because I find it funny that something so simple could amuse me. I return to my notebook, writing nonsense, playing with words. I write them forwards and backwards. I glance at my watch noticing that I have been here almost two hours. I like this place and I think it likes me.

I wonder what I would be doing right now had I not taken your advice. More likely that not I would be at home, doing household chores and sorting through the usual bills of banality. I smile. You would be delighted to know of my attempts to enjoy these moments. Moments that only I can create for myself. Moments that will become treasured memories when I am old and gray. I will tell my grandchildren of my adventures. I really should be doing my homework. Milton-ugh-talk about confusing. I begin to play with the letters of Milton's name. Notlim, tonmil, limnot, limited not, not limited in thought, tons of millisecond thoughts, one word, or a thousand, he wrote then all not limited by life. I laugh inwardly. My thoughts on Milton seem absurd.

A man with dark hair and a goatee leans his head on the bar by the counter. He chats nonchalantly with the waitress. He drinks his coffee black. According to his black T-shirt he likes the Doors. I hope I get to know the people here. The cook who is also is a part-time waiter. He has the look of a wild musician.

The waitress with the short dark hair and the doe-like eyes. The middle-aged woman who owns the café. She has a raspy but friendly voice. My thoughts turn to life and I ponder on how people always seem to lose themselves in life and only rediscover those they loved after they are gone. I think we should try more to know those we love before it's too late. I wish I had known you better. You were always such an interesting person. People begin to talk of Michael Jackson and the fact the he is going to play Edgar Allen Poe in an upcoming movie. They all think it is an interesting choice.

I feel somewhat sleepy sitting here in the sun-somewhat like a cat on a windowsill. I see a woman walk by the window. She looks familiar but by the time I decide that I know her, she is gone around the corner. Today I drink only water. I haven't been drinking enough water. Maybe tomorrow I will try something different. I glance at the list of drinks to choose from. The names are odd. As I read them, they almost sound like poetry themselves. Just Java, Café Aulait, Espresso, Americano, Shot-in-the-dark, Mochachino, Cappachino, Mocha Latte', Mochachino Latte', Mocha Steamer, Chocolate Steamer, and something called a Frappe'. I like the way the words sound. The funny thing is, I don't even drink coffee.

At least I know what I'm drinking when it's water. A well-dressed man in a pinstripe suit walks in. He orders a Monte Cristo with the Soup du Jour. What's a Monte Cristo? He calls the middle-aged woman Lisa. Now I know what her name is. I hope can remember that the next time I come here.

The waitress is flirting with two young men at the table not ten feet away. They laugh at a joke she tells. The young man that always wears black walks in and orders his black cup of coffee. The waitress calls him Thomas. That's a nice name. I wonder if he comes here everyday? I doubt I will ever ask him. I will more than likely just observe him-and notice whenever he shows up. I wonder what I would say if you appeared out of nowhere and asked me if I came here often. I would probably think that it's a terrible line but have nothing to say due to the shock that you actually appeared. My sandwich falls to pieces so I decide to eat it with my fork. I must look odd to those who notice. I tuck my hair behind my ear somewhat self-consciously, as if it willimprove my hearing.

The sun is playing with the clouds today. As it moves from behind them the room becomes bright. Just as suddenly, it becomes gray again as the sun hides once more. Not many people are here today. Maybe because it's Monday. Monday always seems to affect people in different ways. I always try not to let Monday affect me. I wonder if you let Monday affect you. I hope not. The music changes to something with guitars. It almost sounds like something from medieval times. I find it interesting. It seems to add to the quietmood that exists here today.

A delivery boy from the bakery next door arrives. All the sandwiches here are made with bread from that bakery. I find that fact comforting. An intelligent looking man in a crisp white shirt and wire-rimmed glasses stops to add creamer to his styrofoam cup of coffee before he continues out the door. As I watch him leave, I notice the glass-doored oak cabinet across the room. It is full of gold-trimmed china. I doubt that it ever gets used. I look up as the waitress refills my water glass. I come back from wherever I was. Maybe it was a world of nothing. No thought, no sight, and no sound. I was completely unaware of what was happening around me but at the same time still aware of my surroundings. I wonder if you ever had that feeling. Something tells me you would have understood it completely.

The middle-aged woman named Lisa is talking of expansion to the drink supplier that just arrived. It pleases me to know that business is good for her. She tells the supplier that she needs more of that, a little of this, and more of the pink stuff. He wants to know if the pink stuff is watermelon or cranberry. She says that it's cranberry. There is a narrow passageway to the restroom past the kitchen. It is full of cases of flavorings. Things like vanilla cream, butterscotch, Irish Cream, and coconut. Raspberry, caramel, English toffee and peppermint. It sounds like a sweet shop. My mind turns to the other chores I must do today. I try to remember if I left the list of items that I need at the market on my kitchen counter or not. I wish I had more time today.

Sometimes I feel like I could sit here forever.

Now Sinatra is singing of Chicago. I've never been there. In the middle of the table is an empty brown bottle full of dried flowers. I should make an effort to get to know more of the regulars here, but I still lack the courage to do so. The waitress brings me the usual glass of water with lemon. I decide to ask her name. It's Sherry, like the drink she says. I like it. Her hair is almost that color.

A boy on a skateboard flies past the window. I was never any good at skateboarding. When I was twelve and my brother was fifteen I tried to use his skateboard. He laughed when I fell off and skinned my knee. He still likes to tease me about it. Teasing little sisters must just be what older brothers do. The young man in black appears. He walks back to the kitchen to tell the occupants within hello. He gets his black coffee to go today. I smile as he walks past me out the door. He smiles back. I never realized that a cappuccino machine could make so much noise. It almost drowns out the music. I notice that the table next to mine also has a glass top. Underneath it is a map of the world. I think of all the places I have never been but still hope to see. I wonder which places you had been to and what you saw on your travels. I hope, one day, to see Scotland. The land of my ancestors must be so exciting. There could be so many memories made in a place like that, but for now, my imagination will have to do. I wonder where your imagination took you. Imaginations can take us anywhere, even beyond the boundaries of Earth.

I notice that in the corner behind the counter are large canisters of coffee beans and a grinder. I see the sign that tells patrons they can buy fresh ground coffee by the half pound. I discover that the cook and part-time waiter is the husband of Lisa. They run this place together. His name is Mike. He asks me about my studies when I pay my bill. He wants to know if I "got my work done". I tell him I finished most of it, but that I'll be working until I graduate. He asks when that will be. "To tell the truth", I say, " I don't really know. I think I've changed my major too many times." I like him. I think I will try to get to know both Lisa and he better.

The lady police officer that walks around the streets downtown giving parking tickets comes in. Sherry calls her Mary. She must come here every day. She reminds me of my first grade teacher. I think it's her long blond hair and friendly smile. I wonder how long I have been parked down the street. I can't stay too long or I'll end up getting a ticket. That would be funny. Well, maybe it wouldn't.

I take the biscotti and cocoa to my table. I pull out my notebook. I left my studies at home today. I take a sip of the cocoa. I can feel it warm me as it goes down. There are not many people here today. Mike's two young daughters are sitting at the round wooden table coloring and practicing cursive writing. The older one is counting down the minutes to her birthday. "In eight minutes I'll be ten, Daddy." she says. She is wearing an army green T-shirt with Winnie the Pooh on the pocket. Her blond hair is loosely braided. Her little sister wears pink pants, a pink shirt, and a pink flowered headband in her hair. She reminds me of cotton candy, sugary-sweet.

Today after class, I had a discussion with some other students about a poem. The subject was love. Is it lies or truth? One believed it was lies, another believed it to be truth. I told them that they must remember that each person's definition of love comes from that person's experiences with it. They agreed and we went our separate ways. I wonder what your definition of love was, you never told me, but then, Inever asked you.

The name of this place is Café Ambrosia. Ambrosia is the food of the Gods. I think that this chocolate biscotti dipped in cocoa must come close. I decided to dress for myself today. I am tired of dressing for other people. I'm wearing my favorite white sneakers, comfortable faded blue jeans and a lime green sweater. My mom never liked the color of this sweater but she always said it looked good on me. You would have liked it. I seem to remember that your favorite color was green. I went to the bookstore before I came here. I wandered up and down the isles of books flipping through pages but found nothing interesting enough to buy it.

Two salesmen from the telephone company come in. They give Mike their sales pitch on advertising in the yellow pages. He is concerned about the cost. The birthday countdown is up. The older daughter tugs on Mike's shirt. "Daddy, Daddy, I'm ten! I'm ten now Daddy!" she says excitedly. Mike smiles at her. In that one little smile, I can see how much he loves her. I near the end of my cocoa. The chocolate syrup is collected at the bottom of the glass. It remindsme of mud.

I hear the ten-year-old laugh at something her sister said. I am reminded of when I was ten years old. I don't remember laughing much. Sometimes I think my childhood was cut short that year. It was the year I was diagnosed with a chronic illness. I was required to grow up rather quickly. Some people say it has affected me. They always tell me I seem more mature than my age. I have come to live with the illness. It's become part of my daily routine and another part of my life. I return to reading Keats from the paperback book I brought with me. I don't remember if you liked Keats or not. I think you must have. Anyone who loved Byron must have liked Keats.

The bell on the door rings. As usual, I look up to see who enters. An elderly man in a green baseball cap and a red jacket stands in the entryway. His heavy work-boots are dusty. He asks Mike if he has anything to eat. "Do you make sandwiches here?" he asks. I can see that Mike is amused by his question. "We sure do," Mike says with a smile, "Make yourself comfortable." The man sits at the table next to mine and Mike brings him a cup of coffee. He is delighted and heartily thanks Mike. He orders a fried egg sandwich with bacon on wheat bread. My grandpa always used to eat fried egg sandwiches. I watch the old mans' hands as he stirs cream into his coffee. His hands remind me of Grandpa's hands. They show signs of hard work. My grandpa worked hard too. I wonder if the old man is anyone's grandpa.

Sherry brings me the usual glass of water with the thin lemon slice. I compliment her on the beaded necklace she is wearing. She thanks me and tells me that she made it herself. She seems glad that I noticed. The bell rings again. Another elderly man walks in. He is bent over a cane. He wears slacks and sport coat. He has glasses and distinguished gray hair. He slowly moves across the room to a corner table and carefully sits down. I determine that, due to his age, his body will not allow him to move as quickly as he would like. I notice a gold wedding band on his left hand. I wonder if his wife is at home waiting for him or if she has passed away. I wonder what I will look like when I an old. Will I walk a little slower and take more, or less, notice ofthe little things in life?

Just this morning I was trying to determine how I had been around for 25 years and seemingly not accomplished anything. Now, seeing these two elderly men, I can see that I have plenty of time left to make certain that I do something worthwhile with my life. I wonder what they think about when they look back on their lives. Do they have regrets mixed in with many good memories? Sherry brings the old man in the red jacket his fried egg sandwich. "Can I get you anything else?" she asks. "How about a million dollars?" he jokes. We all laugh at that. I wonder what he would do with a million dollars. There are so many possibilities. The music today reminds me a movie. I think it goes well with the movie that I am creating in my mind. I look out the window. It's beginning to rain. I think I left my kitchen window open. I had better go home and close it.

A man and his young son are sitting at the bar. The boy adjusts his thick glasses and plays with the magnetic poetry that is on the silver tray in front of him. His father leans over and helps him sound out words. Lisa has repeated the list of cheese choices for people three times in the last ten minutes. Cheddar, baby Swiss, mozzarella, provolone and pepperjack. I prefer the baby Swiss.

At the table to my right sits a rather tall man. He wears a black leather coat and a blue sweater. It's hard not to notice the very large gold and diamond band on his hand. I can tell he cares about his appearance from the way his salt-and-pepper mustache and beard are neatly trimmed. He is reading a paperback novel with yellowed pages. It must be interesting because he does not notice when Sherry refills his water glass. The ice cubes in my water have melted. I hear the bell on the door ring. I don't bother looking much anymore. I know that it will never be you that walks in. You are gone to a place no one knows anything about.

Mike passes my table and I say hello. He stops to chat. I ask him if he likes the snow. He tells me that he doesn't because he always likes to wear his sneakers and the snow gets them wet and soggy. He doesn't like wearing boots. I tell him how much I liked the biscotti last time I was here. He tells me that they come from Minnesota but that the lady that makes them is a true Italian. Sherry moves the tray of poetry magnets to the round wooden table to make room for the little boy's special order of macaroni and cheese. What is it with kids, and macaroni and cheese? I suppose once that they get older, they will realize how many other good things there are to eat in the world. I still like macaroni and cheese. I justdon't eat it every day.

I look over to the round wooden table. There is a man with long hair and a mustache. He's wearing leather, chains, and a Harley T-shirt. He asks Sherry for his order to go. He starts playing with the poetry magnets. I find it interesting because men like him aren't often considered intellectual or poetic. At the table to my left is a well-dressed woman. She is talking on her cellular phone to someone. She is discussing gift ideas for Christmas. I started shopping today. I bought my nephew a large pad of drawing paper and some colored pencils. His mother told me that he has taken to drawing. I figure I may as well encourage it. He may be the great artist I never could be. I am very tired today. I think life may be catching up with me. I am not sure how life catches up with someone. It sounds as if I'm running from it, when I feel that I sometimes try to run after it. I'm still cold, even after eating soup and drinking cocoa. Maybe I am running out of steam. Maybe I'm running out of thoughts. I think I'm just losing myself today. I hope I can find myself again.

The music sounds like something from an African jungle. Maybe it's a weak attempt to make it feel warmer in here. I wonder if something is wrong with the heater. Mike stops by my table. He is on his way out to make some deliveries. He asks me if I like the chicken salad. I tell him it's the best I've ever had. He says that he should do something to capitalize on that. I tell him that I'll start advertising for him by telling everyone I know about his chicken salad sandwiches. He thinks that mighthelp and thanks me.

The older gentleman that wears a gray derby hat and oxford shoes comes in. He comes in every time I'm here. He always buys two chocolate muffins with exact change. I'm not sure why but he reminds me of a leprechaun. He asks Sherry how she is doing. She tells him that she is going to Hawaii next week. He seems exited for her and says that he wishes it were him that was going. I wish it were me that was going to Hawaii. I've never been there, but then, I've never been much of anywhere. I've never even been on a plane before, but according to what I've seen on the news, I don't think flying is that safe.

There is a new gold gilt mirror in the bathroom. On my way back down the hallway, I stopped by the kitchen to tell Lisa what a great cook she is. She smiles and thanks me. I feel good about making her smile. I think my new simple goal will be to make someone smile everyday. I made a friend of mine smile by sending him happy thoughts today. I recall the conversation we had about how I needed to start chipping away at the writer's block that I am experiencing. I told him that I had hopes that coming here would help. I'm not sure if it has but I feel better about it now being a possibility. The music changes to swing. Maybe someday, I will be able to convince someone to learn how to swing with me. I can't seem to find anyone todance with.

The bell rings. It's Thomas, the "guy in black" as I call him now. Today, however, he's wearing a green shirt! I wonder what brought him out of his "black " mood. He orders his usual "cup o' Java" as he always puts it. The lunch patrons are beginning to arrive. I look at the clock above the cappuccino machine. It's noon. The lunchtime rush begins. Two young men sit down at a table. They both have sunglasses perched atop their heads. At the table in the other corner sits a small gray-haired woman wearing an ivory sweater. She squints as she reads the menu. I wonder how long her sight has been bothering her. She stops and rubs her hand as if it is giving her pain. Maybe she suffers from arthritis. I wish there were something I could do for her. Sherry has to lean close to hear her order because she speaks quietly.

I like watching the people here. There are so many different people and each of them possesses unique qualities. Four more young men come in. They join the two with sunglasses at their table. They remind me of an upper-class gang. They joke and laugh with each other. The gray-haired woman watches them, somewhat nervously. I wonder if she often eats alone.

Sometimes being alone is a nice thing, but sometimes, it's just lonely. I see time is catching up with me. I remember that I have to take my car by the mechanic today. I'm beginning to think that walking is the way to go. I would only have to worry about myself breaking down then.