Back at Mama Mia’s
We met again, in the spring. We were all together once more, a few months after our first meeting. It was spring now, still chilly at night but warm and fresh during the day. The trees were pale green, there was the smell of fertilizer in the valley where I live and a sense of new beginnings all around. Spring in our part of the world usually means lots of wind, and this spring was no exception. Dust devils danced on the mesa as I drove into town around five in the afternoon, and made the blue sky blurry and muted. There hadn’t been rain in months and the wind drew dry clouds across the desert, parched and brittle.
As I drove into the parking lot I saw a sign next to the door of the little Italian restaurant. It didn’t mean much, probably a new building going up. I parked and walked towards the old oak door, and read the sign. We were losing our restaurant, according to what I read; a big discount store was going in soon. No more quiet little bar with old fashioned wing back chairs and a chandelier made of green bottles with little lights inside. No more platters of pizza, melting and aromatic. No more Harry with his string tie and smile. This would probably be our last chance to meet here, and I walked in with a peculiar sense of loss. It was just a restaurant, right? We could find another place to meet, sure. But something like anger simmered inside me, and I met a table full of my friends with scowls on their faces.
“What now, Enchilada Express or that fried chicken place?”
“How can we meet and talk without Harry and the green chili pizza?”
I plopped the satchel on the chair and dug out the tape recorder to the applause of my friends. “Here we go, guys, let’s talk about why it makes us upset that we’re losing Mama Mia’s. It’s therapy time, right?”
Honoria grinned. “It’s change, that’s what it is. We just don’t like change. We’re too vulnerable, fragile, self-absorbed….”
Everyone hooted at her as she laughed and drank her coffee. We were all survivors of some pretty hard roads, and fragile we weren’t. Change is still hard, even for survivors. We like the way our lives settled into patterns, and held on to the known while we kept wary eye on the unknown sneaking up behind us. It sneaks up on everyone, once in a while, but we had our share already.