You can’t come here anymore.
I met the owner of Glyph a few months back-she was the person who introduced me to the Big Legrowski-and yesterday, after she told her employees that the restaurant couldn’t continue and closed the space for the last time, she asked me to join her. There were small cleanup tasks but mostly I was there to attend the wake for a dream.
We sat at a table and talked about family, about endings, about who shows up when you need them to. We talked about what you do when people you rely on don’t appear, instead near strangers do. About the meaning of drama.
We raided what was left of the beer, cider and wine and I did my best to remind her that she did a good thing, turning her dream into a reality. Even if it didn’t work out, this has been a benefit for her. I attempted to do so gently: when your leg is being sawed off, it’s difficult to have another patient tell you “Hey, this is a plus for you!”
I also just did my best to listen. We noshed on meatballs and polenta. In the middle of it all, I turned around and took a picture of the now empty space. A reminder of a cool thing that didn’t work out. Because instead of going and writing for the blog I helped someone mourn.
A pint for Dionysus 