“Another cappuccino” the cashier with the nose ring calls to the barista.

We’re at Cofix in Ramle, where everything costs 5 shekels, and there’s a line – people, just like me, waiting for their coffee.

There’s an old couple holding hands – they’re looking for the Interior Ministry so they can file their immigration  forms.

“Po-Ruski?” they ask me.

“Nyet.” I answer.

And they don’t speak English either, only Russian — “but sometimes dreaming we do in Hebrew, maybe sometimes.”

These new immigrants, older than my parents.

The line moves.

A soldier with a yarmulkes orders cappuccino.

“Another cappuccino,” the cashier says.

A young guy with a hoody and torn jeans asks what time the bus to Jerusalem is coming “I want to go to the Kotel today. Oh, cappuccino please.”

“Bus leaves at 10:10. Another cappuccino,” says the cashier.

A woman with half moon eyebrows and leopard print boots steps up to the counter: “cappuccino.”

“Another cappuccino!”

“Is it safe to take the Light Rail?” the man in the hoody asks.

“It’s fine,” a mother with her baby in a sling tells him.

It’s her turn in line: “Cappuccino please.”

“Another cappuccino.”

The busses lurch and the old men smoke, people check their phones and the teenage girls walk back and forth in front of the soldier boys. The   coffee machine hums and hisses.

“Another cappuccino.”

The old couple shuffle off toward the Interior Ministry.

The old man holds their papers and the old woman holds their drinks.

The soldier adds cinnamon to the foam.

The woman with the leopard print boots adds pink lipgloss after every sip.

The baby coos. The mother smiles.

“Another cappuccino.”

And another and another and another.

Just yesterday, we buried a young father.

Tomorrow, we may bury someone else.

But today is still quiet.  So far.

A soldier looks up from his phone and smiles at a pretty girl.

“Another cappuccino.”

“Espresso, please,” I tell the cashier.

She blinks.  Then smiles.

May our mornings be like this always.

latte