Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...

Yesterday, as one of my tables was about to get up to leave, I approached them so I could clear their plates. The older gentleman looked up at me and smiled, squinted his eyes a little. 

“What is your name?” he asked. 

I told him, “Macy, like the department store,” because I always have to follow up with that. 

He said, “How old are you?”

And I told him I was 25, almost 26, to which he responded with a laugh because his daughter had guessed my age correctly. Since his daughter had already excused herself from the table, the man rested back in his chair and struck up a conversation with me, one that lingered in my thoughts all day. 

“So why are you here?” he asked. 

I paused a little, glanced out the window, then back down at him. “I’m just here temporarily––”

“I know. I can tell,” he said. “You’re not meant to be here long. What do you do, Macy?”

I’d thought about saying something like, “Outside of waitressing? My hobbies, you mean?” But I knew what he was really asking; there was a truth to his voice, a need to understand me on a level most of my tables don’t bother with. 

“Well, to be honest,” I said, “I was the editor of a newspaper last year until the business shut down, so now I’m here until I get married in April and move to Nashville to get back into journalism.” 

“I knew it.” He smiled without missing a beat. “I knew you were doing something great.”

I thanked him, feeling a mixture of pride and humility. 

“You’re going to do great things,” he added. 

Immediately, I thought of my books, my career as a growing author. My books, I thought, will be my greatest things. I felt that in my bones. I hadn’t told the gentleman about my continuous chase toward a career as a full-time author. I also hadn’t told him that I’ve loved waiting tables this past month, that it’s fulfilling to serve people all day. But no matter where life pushes or pulls me, I think I’ll always return to one of the “great things” that man was referring to. 

Those in the newspaper industry have a saying, that “ink is in your blood.” Once you get it, there’s no stopping the flood in your veins. 

I nodded at the man and thanked him for his kindness, glad that some stranger could see the thirst I felt for the written word. That he could, in fact, see the ghost of ink stains on my hands.

Paddling my boat through this season’s current, I hope to once again see land. For now, I’m positive I can see at least the lay of a coastline.