When I was younger than her, my grandfather would take me with him to work during the summers. We'd wake up at the crack of dawn, earlier than the crack, we would see the crack of dawn once we were well on our way, a ninety minute commute to work for my grandfather, five days a week for fifteen years, I commute today and I fully admit that a commute like that would kill me, yet here was this elderly man driving his Ford Taurus across town just to earn a living.

And so, before we made that abyssmal trek across town, he would take me to a small diner in the Farmer's Market called Dupar's. That time of day, around five in the morning, it was mainly populated with people like my grandfather, those not up because they wanted to, but because they had to, and had long ago come to terms with that situation. Older workers, truck drivers, bus drivers, drivers of all kinds, people who worked with their hands, people looking for some, as a crazy i once worked with said on occasion, "go-go juice".

The menu was simple, still pretty much the same as it was eight decades ago when the place was built. My grandfather had me order the pancakes, over which they poured melted butter. Goddamn fantastic.

Years, as they are known to do, pass.
My grandfather dies.
Dupar's closes for remodeling. And stays closed for two years.
At the point at which i figure it won't ever open again, it does.

So I take my sister there, not because it's the same place it was when my papa took me, but because it was a place where i was happy.

Some places you go because of the service, or the food itself, or the ambiance. Then there are some places you go because there is a memory in your mind that rises to the surface whenever you're there, that is summoned by your presence in this place.

She left happy, too.

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