Blueberry Syrup

A childhood memory

The round faced little boy looked out through a rain streaked picture window onto a sodden 65th street in a 1973 Sacramento. The boy sat at a small tacky brown Formica table in a corner cafe where the Greyhound bus stopped a few times a day. The light yellow walls, smells of coffee and hot griddle grease filled his senses. The low rumble of male voices in quiet conversations fill the dimly lit room. His giant dad and his scar faced best friend talk about trucks, tarps, loads and other things he has no understanding of. The waitress comes with his pancake and refills their stained cups. The boy looks at the skinny lady with the big hair and long nose. He has a question, but is too afraid to ask. The boy's father says something that embarrassed him. His cheeks got hot. The waitress smiled at him and then reached for the sticky container on the opposite table.
"I bet you like blueberry syrup." she said.
The boy devoured his single pancake only minutes after his giant dad cut and smothered it in butter and the blue stuff. He spent the remaining time in the dingy cafe making faces in the big picture window and watching traffic until the men were full of coffee and talked out. 
The round faced little boy never forgot that rainy Saturday morning, that corner cafe or the wonderful blueberry syrup.