The Corner Store

Journal

After forty-three years, Mr. Kim locked up the corner store for the last time on Friday.

He and Mrs. Kim opened it in 1982 with two hundred dollars and a borrowed fridge. She did the books. He did the jokes.

Three generations bought their first candy here. He knew every kid's name, every regular's coffee, and every secret the block ever had.

On Thursday, the whole block showed up. Not to shop. To say thank you. Someone brought a banner. Someone else brought forty-three years of stories.

We'd had mugs made — the storefront, just like the sign. 'Kim's Corner. Coffee's on us.' He laughed and said the coffee was never free.

He worked the counter one last time. Gave every kid a lollipop, on the house. 'For the road,' he said.

Friday night, the whole street raised their mugs. 'To Kim's!' He wiped his eyes and said, 'You were never customers. You were my neighbors.'

The store's empty now. But every kitchen on this block has a mug that says otherwise.