My Starbucks moved across the street.

I’ve joked a bit about this transition, teasing that I’m handling it well, that I’m only a little bit angry, that I needed to walk the perimeter to be sure of its boundaries.  I’ve joked and laughed and made light of it.

I’ve taken some teasing.  What kind of routinized, old woman am I, anyway, if I can’t simply move across the street to spacious dining, better parking, and upscale everything that means more dollar signs for the green aprons?

The truth is, it’s kind of a big deal for me.

Starbucks was the first place I went on my own, back when I couldn’t go anywhere on my own.
When night bled into morning and one day spilled into the next, Starbucks was my only goal and destination.
When I couldn’t go home, I went to Starbucks.
When I couldn’t go to church, I went to Starbucks.
When I couldn’t pray, the psalms prayed me – at Starbucks.
When the staff learned our story, when they learned that my children and I needed a safe place to be, they kept a box of games, coloring books, and crayons – just for the little boys who liked hot chocolate.  And the smaller one who learned to order an “iced soy chai.”

That corner table was my sanctuary.  My safest place.

I cried a million tears in that corner.
I turned on my Mac for the first time in that corner.
I wrote a book in that corner.

“Decaf Tall Salted Caramel Mocha, no whip”
“Decaf Grande Toffee Nut Americano, with a splash of cream.”

I know they simply moved across the street.  And I have moved with them.

But the music is louder and the crowd is different and the managers have changed and the staff has shifted and I can’t find my new space and my beloved corner table is now an empty storefront, 300 yards away.

I can look at it, but I can never go back.

I will keep coming to the new place.  And I’ll make it my own.  The staff is learning my name.  Although they often call me Amy.

My Starbucks moved across the street.

And I just wanted to say: it’s kind of a big deal.

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