Grandpa, Is that You?

He was sitting by the windows, alone, sipping a cup of coffee and studying the menu. I was early for a conference on Hispanic Excellence in Television at the studio across the street, so I stopped in for some breakfast. We were both alone. I was dressed to impress, wearing a pressed green and black suit. He was comfortable in a wrinkled blue shirt, old tennis shoes and a dull gold band on the ring finger of his weathered left hand. Every now and again, he would push his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose.

I was in a rush, not wanting to be late for the opportunity to potentially be cast on a major network show. I quickly ordered coffee and an omelette, but the man was still looking at the menu.

The waitress caught me looking at the man. "That's Charlie," she said. "He's been coming in here for breakfast every day for years, since his wife died. I don't know why he stares at the menu. He gets the same thing every day: Two eggs over easy, home fries and whole wheat toast." I nodded, not knowing what to say.

Charlie was my grandfather's name, but I called him Poppi. He died just two years before I sat in that restaurant. Grandma was still alive and well back in New York. I spoke with her at least three times a week since moving to Los Angeles last year. I moved across the country all by myself, leaving all of my family out East.

Charlie smiled as he handed the waitress the menu after ordering. Just like my grandfather, he picked up the newspaper next to him and folded it so it was easier to hold while reading. I looked away, refusing to allow the tears that were brimming to spill onto my perfectly made-up face. I washed the lump in my throat down with some coffee just as my breakfast arrived.

I thanked the waitress and ate in silence, thinking of Poppi and how much I so desperately missed him. I'd glance up at Charlie every now and again, watching him enjoy his morning routine of reading his paper and eating his breakfast. He probably missed his wife as much as I missed my grandfather, if not more.

"Here you go," I said as I handed the waitress my credit card.

"You sure you don't want some more coffee?" She asked. I shook my head. "Okay, I'll ring this right up."

A thought crossed my mind. "Hang on a second," I said. She stopped and looked at me.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Put Charlie's breakfast in my tab, too." She looked at me quizzically, but I just smiled in return. "Please."

"Well, who do you want me to say paid for his breakfast if he asks?" She demanded, clearly confused by my instructions. I looked at Charlie, sipping his coffee and reading the news. My heart cramped a little as I thought about Poppi. A tear escaped and trailed down my cheek."

"Just say it's from his granddaughter," I replied. The waitress nodded, softening. Her eyes became a little glassy as she looked up as the lonely old man sitting by the window.

I'm not sure Charlie knew who paid for his breakfast that morning. Heck, I don't even know if he noticed me. What I do know, however, is that I felt like I bought my Poppi breakfast that morning. I hope Charlie felt as though his granddaughter did the same for him.