Fifty Years of Tuesdays

Journal

Fifty years ago, Frank asked me to marry him in booth number four. Last Tuesday, the diner told us they're closing.

We were twenty-four and broke. He ordered pie he couldn't afford and a ring he definitely couldn't afford.

Every Tuesday since. Same booth. Same pie. Three kids, seven grandkids, and one very patient waitress named Dot.

Our granddaughter Emma heard about the closing. She didn't cry. She got to work.

She turned our backyard into booth number four. Checkered tablecloth. Cherry pie. Even a little 'Dot' name tag for herself.

She'd made us matching shirts. 'Est. 1975.' Frank put his on backwards first. Some things never change.

Then Frank stood up, held out his hand, and said, "Mrs. Alvarez, may I have this dance?" Fifty years. He still asks.

The diner closes Friday. But Tuesdays? Tuesdays are ours. They always were.