I’m Not His Mom, But I Love Him Like My Own

Marisa Howenstine

The ambiance of my favorite coffee shop is louder than usual. I know, every time I walk through these garage-style doors, that there is an energy here I can’t replicate anywhere else. The buzz of voices, ice clinking in glasses, electronic music pulsing through the corner speakers — this is not a traditional spot. And that’s perhaps why I like it. My thoughts run faster here, as fast as the beat. I feel alive…