is not supposed to be a monumental memory.
I am not supposed to be hanging on to the memory of
a midnight donut run
a jazz club on Frenchman St.
a witchy tea shop giving away Fuck You Harvey Weinstein cake, just because
a French cafe chain
or a thirty-minute stop at a gas station/Taco Bell.
These memories are special because of the people in them.
Because that Taco Bell is where I went against your recommendation and bought a gaudy, two sizes two big bright red hoodie with the saying, “Mississippi: It’s Longer Than Yours”
Because that cafe was our first attempt at exiting a streetcar in New Orleans, and we failed.
Because those witches were kind and lovely and brewed stunning tea & fed our souls and our morality.
Because that jazz club was authentic and warm and brimming with spirit.
Because that donut run was our last midnight drive together.
I should remember these places, these last few restaurants,
for the conversations held in them.
And I do.
But I remember them too
because I miss fretting about the stares of strangers
the hard backs of ugly seats or
the sticky leather of a booth.
I miss the welcoming spiel of a server,
the murmur of a dozen other conversations.
I miss the jingle of the bell announcing your entrance,
and the awkward eye contact with passersby
as you chomp away in a window seat.
What I miss most is you, but damn it if I wouldn’t love to sit in the booth of a bustling McDonald’s with you tonight.
By Brittany Ashley