Jasmine

It’s been 10 years since my mother died. And today is her death anniversary..

As walk on the 252 22nd street i am reminded of my mother.. She used to work at a café at the end of this Street. It was a quiet little corner. The kind that buzzed with chatter during the afternoon but fell into a silence as night crept in.

After a customer filled busy day she was just about to close up and head home. She was turning off the lights when the door creaked open—a customer had walked in.

Instead of turning him away, she welcomed him with a tired but gentle smile and went behind the counter to prepare his order. She wore her usual purple apron and got to work.. to prepare his coffee . After the order was taken no words were spoken. Only the soft whir of the blender and the annoying beeps of the microwave could be heard.

But this peace didn’t last long.

With a hiss and a spark, the blender’s wire burnt out and then the coffee spilled everywhere, splattering onto Mom’s purple apron. The man, worried, rushed to her side and asked if she needed help. That’s when she noticed his eyes—his eyes held galaxies, and they shone as brightly as the moonlit sky. His eyes reminded her of how she used to watch the skies at night in her hometown and how it gave her all the peace in the world.

He seemed taken aback, perhaps by how long my mother had stared at eyes. But then she smiled and asked if he still wanted his drink.

After my mother cleaned herself up, the man asked again whether she would like any help in cleaning the mess and all the grease on the floor. So, she smiled once again and politely declined his offer and a little later gave him his coffee and cake.

That moment, as small and strange as it was, changed everything.

After the incident the man used to stop by the cafe regularly. They often spoke about books, music, bad coffee, and life. One day when the shop was finally closed and he was about to leave, he handed my mom a ticket.

It was for a piano recital titled “Fields of Jasmine” by Jess Hunt.

My mother was fixated on the name "Jasmine"—as it was her own. Though people often shortened it to "Jas", and she usually never tell them about her full name. But she always loved hearing it in full.

And this is how my mother met my father.