khaki ball cap.

i was unassuming that day as i walked into the meat market. this place had been preserved for at least fifty years, still the white hats and the bottomless coffee. i was in a rush, fumbling the money from my coat pocket, a military job i had picked up at the thrift store, and then handing it off to the cashier. i adjusted my glasses with my thumb and forefinger and glanced to my left, catching eyes with a not quite withered old man. he was wearing a khaki ball cap with a marlin on it, a badge of honor for a hard life selling sofas, transmuted first into a condo, and then just the hat. upon further inspection there was nothing remarkable about the man, a members only jacket and gray slacks. our eyes met once again, and he voiced a life's worth of learning, his only lesson for my five seconds of time. "old habits die hard, son." this he uttered from the gap between his ceramic coffee mug and his old, weathered nose. the moment i began reflecting on his sentiment the cashier interrupted, handing me an assortment of coins and a box full of animals. i was off out the door, eager to get back to the coffee shop and through the cold, constantly cursing the weather.

i never thought back to that day until this afternoon. i was sitting in the worn seats of my battered pickup and a thought crossed my mind: "old habits die hard." then i breathed to myself silently, an almost muted, "son." it came back, all in a rush of colors and senses and smells. an old man in the meat-market, warning me through his course of life. i should take heart and remember.