tom’s diner

Laughter, chatter, clatter, music – all blending into one. Conversations drift between friends, a father and his kids sharing breakfast – chocolate milk in their hands, eggs on their plates. And here I am: an observer, an intruder. Homesick. Searching for comfort in moments that strangers share with the people who already give them what I so deeply crave.

Faint traces of their joy find their way to me as I look up, soaking in the love brimming from these stuffed diner booths. It draws me in. The waiter moves from table to table, and each group – momentarily pausing their talk, dipped in coffee, drenched in maple syrup, salted alongside runny eggs – offers him a small, grateful smile. It reminds me of Oakhurst – pho shared with friends, infinite conversations about the same repetitive days. Familiar comfort.

The neatly arranged booths try to offer that same comfort. So do the cars outside. So does the ketchup bottle, the orange juice, the fries, the muffins, hot sauce, bread. Each familiar item tries to soothe the chaos and anxiety swelling inside me. Each one reminds me of family. So does the polaroid sitting on my dorm desk – the only piece of “decor” I managed to squeeze into my massive suitcase.

You’d think three weeks away from home would be easy for someone who spends the whole year counting down to summer, to finally going home. But it’s not. I still feel misplaced. That photo offers the little comfort it can, and I accept it with open arms. I’ll take whatever I can get.

The walls here are decked out with pictures, posters, pennants. A TV hums in the background, demanding no attention. Menus, waiters, bills, yellow lamps – warm, bright, slightly jarring. The fresh fruit in front of me tries to pull my focus. The strawberries are perfectly cut but oddly flavorless. The cantaloupe is slightly more promising. Homesickness washes over me again. I miss the fruit from home – the perfectly sweet watermelon, the ripe mango, the strawberries that actually taste like strawberries.

I try to push the feeling away, let the scent of syrup, muffins, and bread pull me in. The smell of coffee does it best – strong, huggable, lingering in every corner. I love it. Even the booths smell lived in. I feel welcome. I feel comfortable. I feel the chaos easing – just a little.

Chaos: messy, unstructured, bothersome, exciting – and most importantly, helpful. Chaos is learning. Chaos is adapting. Chaos is evolving. Change is chaotic. And this – this is change. This is chaos. I’m learning how to ease it, right here in this booth.

I let myself flow with the laughter, the conversations, the Bruno Mars playing softly in the background. This is the taste of New York: a warm smile, just when the chaos gets too cold. It makes you feel at home – just as you're longing for it the most.