It’s only when I discover Third Street Stuff’s doors locked that I realize I should have visited more.
Too often did I make the excuse of it’s too far or I’m too tired to make the drive
or there’s someplace closer by to give me what I need; maybe next time,
except next time just became no more times and there’s another door closed in my heart.
How many phases of life has this building stood as promise through?
Freshman year of college, when we made it our regular hangout despite the fact
that my car was parked two-and-a-half miles back at the football stadium-
the picture taken of shocked faces after an eighty-seven point Scrabble play.
I’d boasted you’re going to have to do something fancy with the J and the X to catch me!
My opponent dropped JINXED on a Triple Word.
Those are the people I should have stuck around, all that time ago,
instead of a particular non-coffee-drinking crowd I would soon fall into.
Years later, the shop would become the springboard for an easy, casual romance.
She had just finished with classes and wanted a coffee and wanted me to be there, too.
As I took my seat beside her, she offered half her sandwich and thus began the best two years of my life,
maybe more if I had fought a little harder for what I wanted.
Still, to this day, I reflect on that relationship with great fondness.
But there was also another girl who I might have once been friends with
had we not crossed paths at the absolute worst time.
All I know is that Third Street was at one point her favorite place
and I’ve always wondered if there was ever a day we both sat at different tables.
Or would have, if I just dragged myself out of the house.
I think that’s the crux of what hurts about that front door not opening:
the inability to make right things that couldn’t help getting broken.
And though I know there’s a chance this closure won’t be permanent,
I can’t shake the worry that it won’t come back the same
because I didn’t.
I barely came back at all.
