the visit

the visit

[disclosure: English is not my first language and I am sorry for the possible mistakes ahead.]

he arrives around the same hour every day, a little before lunch time, and sits next to me, at the big wooden table we share with other people that, like me, bring their computers to work with.
he brings an old leather bag, the ones you can attach to your bike, and a rain coat, tight hoodie under the chin. 
sometimes he brings a small cashew bag that he eats while reading the newspaper. then he orders a latte and eats the foam with a spoon, very slowly.
like some sort of a tick, he brushes his hair with his fingers, while his shaking hands go through the big paper pages, reading glasses falling from the nose. 
at the end, he asks me in Dutch if I can watch over his bag and coat while he goes to the restroom. and I, not knowing how to answer the way I wanted to, smile and say 'yes'. when he comes back, he thanks me with a gentle smile and leaves. buttoned up coat, gloves, the rain outside and the old leather bag on the bike. 

perhaps it's the white hair, the age, the hands, the bone structure. perhaps the gentleness and the kindness. I don't know. but he sure makes me remember my own grandfather when, while also seated at the table, he used to read the entire newspaper, every single day. 

every day my heart shrugs a bit when I see him entering the cafe's door but I like this part of my day. 

almost like a visit from my dearly missed granddad.