Published in the PSC CUNY Retirees Chapter Newsletters: February/March 2026
Monday morning: 5 a.m. Two years ago, my husband died. I woke up early, still missing his presence. His half of the bed still feels lonely. As Joni Mitchell expressed, "The bed's too big The frying pan's too wide.” I woke up to darkness. I gazed outside my window, and the sky seemed endless, black, and bleak. I felt restless, unable to sleep.
I'm glad I live on the Upper West Side. I liked the early morning quietude of my neighborhood. In my pre-pandemic memory, the familiar blocks seemed to be buzzing twenty-four seven. Now, the once-busy bars have almost disappeared, replaced by small cafés serving an endless variety of coffee in all possible colors, textures, and combinations.
I wanted to race out and not be alone. I dressed quickly in comfortable casual clothes. I had no destination in mind, just wanting to be away from my solo state and my lonely city apartment.
It was so early, even the faithful dog walkers were still asleep. Traffic was slow. The bright city buses shone in the darkness, yet the city still seemed sleepy.
Most small places that served an early shot of caffeine were open at 7 a.m. The nearest cafe hadn't opened yet this morning. The familiar glass door was unlocked, and I walked into the quiet darkness.
“Hello, hello, is anyone here?” I asked at the empty store. A small man in a blue woolen cap and work clothes emerged from the kitchen in the back.
“Hi, we don’t open till 7:00.” He looked at his watch. “It’s only 5:15.”
“Oh, I’ll come back.” I felt forlorn and sad.
“No, you’re here. I know you, you’re the lady who always orders ‘iced coffee with lots of milk, no sugar.’ You always come by early in the morning.”
“That’s right.” I smiled. The man took off his cap. “I know you; you’re Jose.” I smiled.
“And you’re Connie,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes, you’re right... I know all my regular customers. I’ve made bagels in the back here for sixteen years.”
“Sixteen years!” I thought of my own varied work history and admired Jose’s consistency.
“Stay right here. One iced coffee is coming up for you.” The iced coffee lacked the bitter grinds, and seemed like a perfect, small miracle.
I sat in a comfortable chair near the worn and scratched wooden table. I was there for a few minutes, to value the quietude, to appreciate the rare silence.
“Thank you, Jose. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Goodbye, Connie, enjoy your day,” he replied.
We both smiled. Soon, the day’s gloom lifted. The frail sun peeked through the sky’s fading darkness, vulnerable yet shining.