Sister was anxious to get to be off, so we walked awhile, and when we came back, Brian had made me a wonderful iced latte in a to-go cup, just like I like it. I didn't know it would be my last cup of coffee for three days. There wasn't much traffic on Main St. for 11 a.m., just the sounds of hammering, as carpenters and owners nailed boards over their shop windows. It was a grim business, like getting ready for a hurricane. For the first time, I realize how much Kaldi's anchors my own small world, what an essential presence it is in the neighborhood, and I am frightened that it may not reopen.
Nobody knows anything for sure.
It is unimaginable and yet entirely possible that the curfew will remain for days. I stocked up on stuff at Jordan's, the carry-out story next door to Kaldi's. This is the crucial afternoon of the funeral of young Timothy Thomas, held several blocks away from my apartment. When I walked around to go inside, the whole street was covered with white squad cars and dark highway patrol cars. Joe Klug, Brian Kneuven and John Young were standing outside my apartment door when I approached.