The counter timer served to remind the wait staff of how long food sat on the pass through, from the kitchen before it was picked up and delivered to the table.It was a fifties style diner, complete with jukebox and faded, framed photos of old cars, old movie stars, and old menus. People who loved the Last Chance Diner did so in large part because it never changed. They could depend on old-fashioned ambiance and sensible meals. The patrons on that last night were the same patrons who filled it every other night.“I thought it might be the end of the world coming,” proclaimed the cook, noticing the flashing numerals and inadvertently starting another rousing debate about the history of the Last Chance.“You know that 2012 nonsense.” That drew a laugh and some unkind commentary about the Mayans and those who believed the story.“If it is the end, I want a ringside seat,” shouted one diner, as he paid his check, left a stingy tip, buttoned his coat, and got ready to face the storm. “Nothing. This is our truth. If you were above such a scene, if perhaps you were a seagull, if you were a god, you would see shadowed footsteps advancing across this windswept scene behind two people, a man and a woman, two forms joined – as one, moving – as one, silent – windswept, warmed by the certainty of the music in their hearts. You would wonder what purpose lies waiting for these shadows, but you would smile, for without knowing why – you understand. Purpose. There is purpose in life, even in shadow. There is purpose in movement, even undefined, even in chance dancing. Movement toward purpose, movement in obedience to ancient music. You watch footsteps advance across windswept sands, watch purpose unfold in the sharp light of day, and in the music of sand’s endless passage you see that these two shadows have been measured by your light. Measured by the passage of time. You would obey if you could – if you were anything but a god. This is life. What are you but a god? You watch from on.
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