Home Planet: We could be considered pen pals

The woman sat alone at a table on the patio of a busy restaurant filled with people enjoying a late Sunday breakfast. She chose a table without an umbrella, but she wore sunglasses and a floppy straw hat to hide from the sun.

I noticed she had a spiral notebook and from time to time would jot something down on a page.

The more I watched her, the more curious I became about what she was writing. I wondered if she was there to review the restaurant or was simply making notes on her meal. The job of food reviewer is coveted by some, but it never interested me. I don’t want to have to separate myself from a good meal and I don’t want to have to remember and deconstruct a bad one. I watched her a bit longer and decided she wasn’t writing about her food.

She would think for a minute, chewing absently on the tip of her pen, and then write a line or two. Pause, reflect and then write again.

My omelet arrived and I chatted with my daughters as I ate it. But I still watched the woman.

I thought of all the times I have sat alone at tables stringing together words and sentences, rearranging and erasing, scratching out and starting over, placing syllables into empty places like puzzle pieces. It is something I have done most of my life. Plenty of people do it every day.

But watching her was like seeing myself. She could have been me, writing long letters that would never be mailed or dividing a piece of paper into two columns of pros and cons, matters clearly spelled out to help me weigh my options. Or, making a laundry list of things to do around the house.

She finished her breakfast at about the same time I polished off mine. She put down her notebook and picked up her cup of coffee, cradling it in her hands, taking small sips.

My daughters were getting restless, grumbling, ready to shake free of me and go on to their own Sunday fun.

The woman pushed away from her table and walked away. I released the girls and sent them on to the car, keys in hand. They could listen to the radio and talk about me for a few minutes. But I had something I needed to do.

Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the leather notebook that is always with me. I took the top off my pen, asked the waitress to pour another half cup of coffee, and leaned over the page.

“The woman,” I wrote. “Sat alone at a table…”