It had been eight long years without a single break. That much responsibility really changes someone. There wasn’t a bit of him left the same.
He tilted the rear-view mirror and gazed at his dark hair, now gray, the lines slicing through his skin, and his own weary eyes peering up at him. He hardly recognized himself.
His car bumped over the gravel road leading to the farm, the tires turning loosely. He stopped, hopped out, and waved a dismissal at the men gathering.
He had heard about Our Table in passing and Oregon seemed obscure enough that nobody would look for him there.
So, here he was.
He scanned the red walls, the roof and the doors, before walking around to the back of the Grocery Store.
He took a seat at the bar. Glancing around, he scanned the area. He liked what he saw.
Two low tables fenced off the region, they were laden with books and in the corner of one was a pile of board games. A couch sat in the corner, and rugs were thrown casually across the concrete floor. Behind him was a bucket of chalk. Writing and drawings were sprinkled across the concrete responding to a prompt written in big capital letters, “Where do you come to relax?” it asked.
“Here.” He whispered. “I come here.”
He turned to the group of men behind him, “Alert the media,” he said, “President Obama wants to endorse Our Table. Uhhh-mmediately.”
He had found his happy place.
— Gita Sterling