My motorcycle brother

I am at a delightful, family-owned cafe on Main Street Markham. The radio plays softly in the background. Sounds of conversations, laughter, the clink of cutlery and the buzz of a cash register flow over my senses. There is a subtle fragrance of food, fresh baking, the aroma of coffee. In a 'double-tall-extra-hot-non-fat-latte' world, where I can register my plastic card and am just one more hit on the website, this little oasis is a gift. It is warm here, in every way. That's why I return.

It is Markham's not-so-best-kept secret, we are that proud of it. We like to flaunt it to our friends, we like to bring our children, we like to go there by ourselves. Enough of the synechdoche, I like to do all that and more. I come here to sit, to write, to dream.

Today is one of those days. With a life that is cluttered with deadlines, such a gift of time, eye appointment or not, is to be celebrated. And I have decided to break my one-cup-a day rule. Livin' it up, I am a rebel today, more than ever.

I have often sat by the back wall that leads to the parking lot. As a regular now, I know exactly which lot to park in and walk in with minimal slush on my shoes. This wall is adorned with family pictures: parents, a young boy, a lovely daughter. I notice that the mother has gifted her glowing eyes to the girl. There are also pictures of motorcycles and trips that have become stories for the rider. I dream of my own journey.

The father places freshly baked bread in the glass case. The son goes from speaking in his beautiful mother tongue with family members, as they move around one another in well rehearsed orbits and with equal fluency, talks hockey ( to me a foreign tongue) to patrons. They are all addressed by name.

I engage him in coversation and ask about the motorcycle trip and the pictures. I share with him my dream of riding across this vast country, coast to coast, on a motor cycle the year I turn 50. He shares his own stories and those of his friends, older than I am, who at 73 have made similar trips.

As he moves on to his next set of chores, I say to him: " I still have a few years. Until then, I will just keep coming back to your wall and sit with my coffee and dream".

"Yes", he says: "Dreaming is important. Dreams get you there".

My motorcycle brother, until today unknown, is my newest inspiration.

Now for one more cup of coffee and one more dream.