NaPoWriMo 21/30

Café Antonia (and other fallen soldiers)

It’s strange to think

there are places on the planet

that you can pinpoint

exactly where you where

ten years ago.

Her birthday and a recommendation

from a friendly hotel receptionist

led to not just a meal,

or an experience,

but a story.

We wouldn’t have been brave enough

viewing the exterior,

and a French Moroccan restaurant

in Spain?

We paused.

But it was one of those rare times

when you felt the planets aligned,

the heavens had deigned to favour you

and lady luck greeted you

with a big, wet French (Moroccan) kiss.

Waiters, atmosphere, décor, wine, food, prices;

characters in a narrative

told many times.

We sent many on the pilgrimage.

All came back believers.

Now our memories are just two ghosts

trapped inside the corpse

of another failed business.

We ask a local,

“It’s complicated” he says.

Tonight, we will light a candle;

remember that first tagine,

wine charged by the centimetre

and waiters who showed chefs wiped-clean plates

that promised hope for the English after all.