I’m sitting
alone
in a coffee shop.

At the door—

a father
and his young
daughter.

She wears
a pink skirt,
perfect
for twirling.

He is
dressed
for an office job.

Recalling my own years
with a dad
who dressed
the same,

I’m surprised that by 8:30,
he’s able to be here at all.

I watch him
guide
his little girl
to the counter

and honor her
cheerful request
for a chocolate
croissant.

As he pays,
she hums
and skims

her fingers
over the
glass bottles
in the display case.

I laugh
softly
at her unapologetic
childhood joy;

mourning
missed
mornings,

since my own
father
never seemed
to have the time.