Traditions, thankfully

December 31st, 2012

I'm here by myself on the last day of this year. A treat in the middle of the season stuffed to the seams with shopping (not too much, just thoughtful gifts), groceries (eat healthy in the midst of all the chocolate) and family time (with two teenagers and my busy schedule, every minute of walks in the snow and doubled up laughter is precious).

I usually come here on weekends: Saturday morning brunch with the children or Saturday evenings to write. I get caught in the comfort of routines that play out in front of my eyes as I sink deeper into the moment, safe. With so many loyal and satisfied patrons, the baking (excellent), the coffee (great, always fresh) beckon, relentless.

As I have said before (in My Motorcycle Brother), this special place is Mainstreet Markham's best kept secret. If you know what I am talking about, you're in. The name itself is a litmus test. If you think I am speaking of a grocery story, then you're not quite there yet!

If you sit at a table, you can be either a newbie or a regular. It's the nods and hellos that set you apart. If you enter the serving bay and help yourself to coffee or honey, you've been here awhile.

And if the weekend reminds you to go with your weekend gaze, your journal and get your coffee refilled many times, then like me, you're hooked. You will return, I know: from out of town, from work, from a busy week, you will come back many times. You will come for your chicken cutlet on your lunch break because you do that every December 31st. This place is tradition, it is a part of many lives.

The banter is heartwarming. To someone like me, an immigrant professional, an economic-political immgrant, here on invitation by the immigration policies of the Canadian government, this is a place that revives my hope of keeping my children rooted to the family life I cherish so much. The older people in the cafe speak to the younger ones in the languages of their heart, and they in turn respond likewise or sometimes in English. "Just like my children", I think, with a smile.  Employees are wished well and sent home with a box of homemade baking to ring in their New Year. I sometimes get a shukriya and a gentle smile, a recognition that I too have another language in my heart. And my motocycle brother knows me as The Little Brown Box. What greater joy for a writer than to be known as her blog: where one stops and the other begins, who knows?

We were hesitant at first years ago. Now my son knows that you get mac-and-cheese on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My daughter likes her coffee and quiche just so. I buy a box of desserts to start a new December 31st tradition.

Today, I listen to the music and let the conversation flow around me. The music stops and I am reminded that in Australia, Sri Lanka and India, 2013 has arrived. I pick up my iPhone and phone my sister. I email my brother, I wish friends. Invisible heartstrings buzz with good wishes and a wistful longing for other homes, other hugs and other sounds.

In the land of my birth, I am a day closer to me next birthday. Here, in my well loved home of glistening snowfields, I still have a few more pages to fill, a few more cups to drain. So I sit, I smile, I muse, I scribble. I know that I will return another day: the desserts are decadent, the coffee whispers my name. Saturday writing at a table for two has become my 'writer thing'.

The sounds of conversation are the best sounds to bring in the new year with.

Come visit. We are in Markham.