This Saturday morning the baristas outnumbered the patrons. I met an old friend to empty the pockets of our lives again. The usual topics rolled out of our brains. Family, sports, jobs, faith, and creativity were encased in story after story. That’s the thing, without a story, without a narrative, if our sharing isn’t embedded in context, we’re only dumping information.

Tis the season, for us in the bleak mid-winter of our lives, where losses outpace gains. I wonder how many conversations in this café include the death of a loved one, an impending divorce, or a friend suffering from a debilitating disease. Dis-ease. As my sister has often said, “Getting older takes courage.” Sitting across from one another with a dark roast aroma rising, this space is as good, or better, to unfold our hearts.

Then there’s this man sipping brew alone a couple of tables over. He rode his bike in 17 degree snow covered Michigan with a hat, flaps down, of course. I’ve seen him here before, writing. This time I spied one piece of paper with a poem, I could tell by the stanzas. His pen in hand propped between fingers like a cigarette. The piece was marked up in-between lines. Ink spattered the margins.

I know the feeling of editing poetry. It’s tricky. He kept at it, often looking off into the middle distance, deep in thought. When my friend left, I engaged the old poet. I told him how impressed I was with his focus on one sheet of paper. He was there for two cups of joe; well over an hour pouring over the piece. He was working on a Christmas poem for a journal to which he submits writings.

I left wondering what kind of history he lived. Maybe one day we will empty the pockets of our lives and share stories.