sixty-four

My favorite coffee shop is a quaint little venue with bright mosaic walls and affable baristas. It has a motley collection of wooden chairs and comfy couches. On Wednesday afternoons, it also has a large ensemble of geriatric Irish musicians with harps and bodhrans and penny whistles and fiddles and even a bagpipe and a standing bass. There are about fifteen of them. They sing at the top of their lungs, clapping their desiccated hands and stomping the floor cheerfully. The bagpipe is shrill enough to shatter anyone’s eardrums, but the tunes are so joyous that no one complains.