Cool Mom

We’re at an intersection. Mom’s observing the world from the passenger seat. I’m thinking about how small she looks. She points, and says, “We used to go to that coffee shop every Saturday night.”

I glance over as cars start moving. “There?” It’s a place I haven’t thought of in ages. Me and my friends used to hang out there. Sip Cokes. Draw. Play D&D until they kicked us out.

“On Saturdays your father and I would go dancing, and end up there,” she said, smiling, lost in thought.

I never knew that.

My folks were way cooler than me.

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