Hey Reader
Everyone has that one bar they have a soft spot for.
It might not be the most beautiful place around. Sometimes, it is the price that keeps you coming back. Sometimes, it is the food, the atmosphere, or simply the fact that you can sit there without feeling like you have to be someone else.
For me, it was the music.
The owner was a big fan of my favorite musician, which happened to work perfectly for me because I was too. His songs played so often that I eventually started associating the place with them. It was almost impossible to walk in and not hear one of his songs playing somewhere in the background.
There was one line we both loved.
“How are you my friend?
How do you do my friend?”
Whenever we saw each other, that was usually our greeting. Sometimes we said it properly. Other times, one of us would start the line and the other would finish it. Then we would laugh and carry on with whatever we were doing.
That was how most Saturdays went.
I would show up after a long week, order my usual asun and find a seat. He would be somewhere around the counter, busy with one thing or another. We would exchange our usual greeting and maybe talk for a few minutes before I settled in.
Nothing about it seemed important at the time.
It was just one of those small routines that somehow become part of your week without you making a decision to keep them.
Then one Saturday, I walked into the bar and didn’t see him.
At first, I thought he was probably somewhere in the back. I ordered my food and waited, expecting him to appear at some point.
He didn’t.
Something about the place felt strange. The same chairs were there. The same music was playing. People were eating and having their drinks. Yet, I kept looking towards the counter.
Eventually, I called him.
When he answered, his voice was weak. He could barely respond.
I asked what was wrong.
He told me he wasn’t feeling well.
I don’t know why that hit me the way it did. Maybe because I had never thought of him as someone who could suddenly disappear from that routine. Every Saturday, I had seen his smile, heard that familiar greeting and gone about my day. I never stopped to wonder what was happening behind it.
I didn’t know that the smile I had become so used to seeing was sometimes hiding a completely different story.
For the next few Saturdays, he wasn’t at the bar.
And that was when I noticed how much I had gotten used to him being there.
The place was still open. The food still tasted the same. My favorite musician still played through the speaker. But something was missing.
I had gone there because I liked the music and the food. Somewhere along the way, though, the people had become part of the reason I kept returning.
When he eventually recovered, I was genuinely happy to hear the news. I went to see him at the bar, and when we finally saw each other, he smiled.
I already knew what was coming.
“How are you my friend?”
I laughed.
“How do you do my friend?”
It was the same greeting we had exchanged almost every Saturday, but it felt different that day.
Maybe because I had finally realised that some parts of our lives become important without asking for our attention.
We don’t always notice them while they are there.
Sometimes, it takes their absence to show us how much space they had quietly occupied.
And perhaps that is one of the simplest ways to understand a good life. It is made up of the ordinary places we return to, the people we keep running into, and the little things we think will always be there.
Until one Saturday, we realise they mean much more to us than we ever said.
Josh 🙏🏼
