Last Conversation at the Union

I strolled into the Union Brewery Saloon that morning, where the dusty scent of antiques hung in the air, where folks traded stories like breathing.

At the bar sat a man, maybe a decade older than me. He looked like someone who had spent his life taking what the land offered without ever asking for more.

His straw cowboy hat was pushed back on his head, catching the light just right. The man was sipping on a Colorado Coolaid, his long, weathered fingers steady as he held the drink.

Sitting beside him, we started talking about growing old, engaging in idle chatter. I commented on his tennis shoes.

“I don’t wear boots anymore,” he said, his voice low. “They hurt my back something fierce. It makes it harder to get up in the morning. Used to be, I couldn’t take a step without a good pair of boots, but now the only things that fit me right are my hat and my suspenders. Everything else—well, it either needs to be replaced or enlarged.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, realizing we were both wearing our time and troubles like worn-out gear—those things that need fixing because they never stay new.