Thursday night, a fellow comes in for a gift certificate to the bistro.
He is from California, visiting.
Getting a gift for his local BampersandB host family.
He drinks an IPA at the bartop.
The bartender, he, and, I talk about a San Franciso hospital.
The one where the bartender had been born.
Where his parents had paid for a brick with his initials to be laid.
The hospital I could see while eating in the Embarcadero, when working in insurance.
The hospital this gentleman could see from his current home.
As he leaves, I happen to be at the entrance.
“I just had the best twenty minutes. Before coming here, I was at the marina by the shore of Puget Sound. Would it be okay if I show you my picture and poem I wrote?” he asks.
“Nothing would please me more.”
We sit on the bench in the entryway together.
The poem is pretty damn good. The first line includes “pilgrim places.” The picture is of the sunset.
The final word is Selah. It is Hebrew.
“It suggests forever; but, it also means like a rock or stop and listen,” he says.
“Like an exhalation or the interval and the rest in musical notion?”
“Yes! If I have a daughter, I will name her Selah,” he says .
“Spoken, it sounds lot like c’est la vie,” I add.
“Fist bump?” I offer my fist.
He makes a complimentary gesture and presses his knuckles to mine.
“Thanks for sharing.”
“Thanks for the first bump.”
His chest swells.
He smiles; then, breathes out.