05/30/2026
Every May has a last Saturday.
You don't always notice it when it arrives. It sneaks in like any other morning: the light coming through the windows at the same angle, the espresso pulling the same way it always does, the familiar sound of the door opening and closing, opening and closing.
But there's something in the air today that feels like a page turning.
May is like that. It starts with everything still waking up: cold nights, muddy yards, the feeling that winter might have one more thing to say.
And then, almost without you realizing it, the whole world goes green. The windows get propped open. People linger a little longer at their tables.
And now here we are. The last Saturday of it.
Monday is June. Summer stops being a promise and starts being a fact. The rhythms shift. The days stretch so long they almost forget to end.
But this morning is still May. Still that in-between place where something is finishing and something else hasn't quite started yet.
There's a certain kind of peace in that space, if you're willing to sit in it.
Come find a chair. Wrap your hands around something warm. Watch the morning do what mornings do.
We'll be here for all of it. The endings, the beginnings, and everything that happens in the quiet space between.
See you soon.
