There’s something sacred about the last time, when you know, deep in your heart, that it truly is the last.
Today was such a day. A day long marked in my spirit, quietly waiting. Today was Amy’s Drive Thru’s final day of service. And when the day arrived, it came gently, with warm light and quiet air, and left something that forever changed in me.
My daughter Sasha and I chose to go early. I rose with the morning light, fed the boys, Brandy, our beloved dog, and the dear cats, and we made our way to Amy’s together. The air was soft, with the warmth of early spring. Sunbeams slipped through the trees just as they always had, like nothing was different. But everything was different today.
Before the doors opened, we wandered the garden. I whispered to the flowers, to the benches and tables, to the birds and the plants. I sat quietly on the garden bench and noticed a couple of strawberry bushes near the path. My grandparents used to grow strawberries, and in that small glimpse, memory bloomed with remembrance. Joy and sorrow arrived together.
Amy’s wasn’t just a restaurant or a place. Amy’s was comfort. It was a ritual. Amy’s Drive Thru held the earliest chapters of our lives in Rohnert Park. Sasha was younger then, and we were still finding our footing. But Amy’s was a constant. We celebrated Earth Day on the patio, planting sunflower seeds and receiving shirts that still live in our drawers. We brought our dear cats, Sunny and Marley, and our dog Brandy, when he was small, to Amy’s. We shared delicious meals under the sky, bathed in sunlight and simplicity.
Amy’s became a quiet sanctuary for me. On difficult days, I could go there and sit in silence, watching the sunset paint the evening sky. The dear to my heart helped me soften through long seasons of change.
When we arrived this morning, we stepped in slowly and ordered warm, familiar food, cinnamon rolls, coffee, and a few extra items to bring home. For a while, the place was quiet. The tables were still. The air was kind. We sat outside and soaked in the spirit of the place, just as we had for years.
I saw a lady, a kind employee I’d spoken with many times over the years. She lives in Rohnert Park, too. Though we’d never been close, we recognized something in each other. This morning, I gathered the courage to truly thank her for her care and presence over the years. We spoke quietly. I cried. She took a photo of me beside the dear wooden flower on the wall, my friend, with the one missing petal. That flower and I knew each other for a long time. It stood at the usual place, reaching silently.
Before we left, I touched the bench gently and asked it to remember me. To remember my hand, my presence, our time. Around noon, the crowd grew, and we stepped away.
But I returned again for sunset.
The parking lot was nearly empty. The sign on the door read: Permanently Closed. But the trees still stood, and the garden gate was open. I sat once more on the bench, in the gold of the setting sun. I looked around and tried to memorize it all: the flowers, the familiar car display, the bird’s nest tucked into the cherry tree, just like the one we have at home. Birds chirped and flew from branch to branch, unaware of the human grief unfolding below.
The wooden flower was still there, attached to the wall. The gentle petals knew something sacred had ended, and something sacred remained. I was grateful to have been there one more time.
That night, I prepared dinner at home with care and intention. I let myself settle into each moment, just like Amy’s had taught me. I held the memory gently. The food was healing.
Later, I gathered the saved menus, coloring pages, and paper bags from Amy’s and placed them into the sacred drawer of my desk, the one where I keep the clay paw prints of my beloved cats Joey, Gandhi, and Ying Yang. The ones who’ve crossed. Now Amy’s lives there too. In memory. In presence. In communion.
I lit a candle for Amy’s that night, not to mourn, but to bless.
Amy’s will always be more than a place. It will be a friend, a chapter, a sanctuary. No matter what becomes of the building, in my heart, it will always be Amy’s Drive Thru.