# 71 Letter to Mataki
Mataki,
If I could strip the day of its ways, would you still sit
in the sun? The coffee stays hot here – steam escalator into the air damn near
dramatic. I’ve sat at this table for 8 years now. Where did you go? Last I heard, you were cutting trees in Montana, flying charter planes in Alaska, eating persimmons in Georgia. My back is a little sore but it’s not like I mind the view
of the mountain ridge from here. I fiddled with the lip of the sugar dispenser for three
years. For two years, salt and pepper turned into people who hermit their napkin house and adopt a sky scraper dog called Ketchup. Ketchup digs the yard, always in the dog house. Bad dog bad, Salt and
Pepper yell out the screen. For the remaining last three, I’ve stared out the window
watching fog fly into bird beaks then absorb into the mountain caps. If I’ve
learned anything, its fog is really just an ocean floating in the sky.
You should ever come back here now nothing will have changed around you. Frying bacon will be flying. Grease so thick mustached and pancake heavy. The evergreens and pines will be here still too. They smell the heavy rain following you into town. Oh the warmth will overtake you at the door I’m sure. And with it, a sigh so small you’re not sure if you did at all. You hang your jacket on the rack and glance at the pie rack on the way to the table. Apple, pecan, banana pudding with cream.
You should ever come back here now everything will have
changed around you. You slide in the booth and I brace myself for you to say, Well
my dearie, where did you
go?
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