there's something about a little diner. about sweet tea and chalkboard specials. about old men in overalls sitting, waiting for the sun rise. strong coffee. eggs with cheese.
but mostly, there's something about waking with your husband. piling into the car and driving in the cold morning (or is it still night?) air. running against the breeze into the warm shelter. sliding into the booth with rain on your jacket. holding hands across the table, right beside the sugar bowl.
our little hometown recently resurrected its diner. after sitting vacant for years, a sweet woman reopened it. and subsequently breathed life back into these roads. these people with red faces and calloused hands.
there's talk of a highway expansion in the future. about a new road pummeling through our dainty two-lane main street. but as long as there's little places like this, i have hope. in the goodness of people. the saltiness of bacon. the strength of will and vinyl siding. and the pride of a small town.
