Free Breakfast With Buddha by Roland Merullo Page B

those things would have been. And television was designed with just such an emptiness in mind. I flipped and flipped for almost half an hour without settling on anything, then drank half a glass of water, went to the desk, and wrote my elder child this letter—which she has saved—on General Sutter’s stationery:
    Dear Tash,
How are you? This is your old dad writing. I’m thinking of you and Anthony and missing you. If you two are on speaking terms, tell him I’ll write to him tomorrow.
Being away from the family has given me time to think. I’ve been thinking about how, sometimes, because we all see each other every day, there is a tendency to take each other for granted, to get caught upin all the routine details of clothes, food, money, rules. You’re at an age now when you are forming what will be your own future life, and your mother and I know that, and we only want that life to be the best that it can be. If sometimes it seems like we put you in a cage and move the bars in closer every day, well, we don’t mean to—we mean to move them closer every other day!
I’m goofy, all right, sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ll tell you about it when I get home, but I’m riding to North Dakota with some kind of spiritual master your aunt hooked me up with. Nice enough guy.
I just wanted to write to say that I love you, that you and your brother mean everything to me and Mom, that your happiness means everything to us. When I get home, I’ll take you out to breakfast at Mitch’s if you can spare the time. Saturday. Any time you want to wake up. Breakfast at Mitch’s at one p.m. if you want. A date. Jared will be sick with jealousy.
All my love,
Dad           
    I read the note over twice, folded it into an envelope, sealed it. I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face then took off my clothes and got into the bed. It felt huge, as hotel beds always feel without Jeannie in them. I lay awake for awhile, hearing another horse-drawn carriage go by beneath the windows and thinking about how impossible it was to convey to your children the depth of your love. My own parents, it seemed to me, had just abandoned any idea of doing that. Or maybe their parents had never given them a decent example of how to even try. Or maybe they just assumed their love was so obvious it didn’t need to betalked about. Or maybe the hard grind of farming life had knocked all the energy out of them. I remembered, once, on one of the rare times that we were out together as a family having a meal, seeing another family of four in the booth across the way. The kids were about the same age as Seese and I, which must have been preteen somewhere. But the mother and father were always touching them: arm around the shoulder, hand on the wrist. I remember that it made me sad, and that the sadness seemed unmanly somehow, and so I never mentioned it to anyone. It was part and parcel of the prairie life to keep your hurts well covered. I went to sleep thinking about that.

ELEVEN
Breakfast at the General Sutter Inn is served in a street-side café that sits just off the main lobby. The morning meal is free for guests, if they choose from a limited menu; or they also have the option to order from the more extensive regular menu and take a five-dollar credit.
    I sat at a table looking out on the street. Still partially full from the night before, I eschewed the cornmeal pancakes and crab and shrimp quiche and asked for something simple: coffee, apple juice, and oatmeal with honey. Rinpoche was nowhere to be seen and I realized we hadn’t set a time for breakfast. The food arrived quickly. I picked up my copy of USA Today and was reading about Israel’s bombing of Lebanon’s infrastructure and speculation about Cuba after Fidel and the big heat wave we were driving through. I looked up from this mix of news, glanced through the window, and caught sight of my traveling companion. He was out on the sidewalk, bending down, collecting