Hi everyone, Please join me in welcoming our new members Dylan, Ayomide, Dwight and Rosalind who joined us recently. It's great to have you all here. Please introduce yourselves in the community so other members get to know you. I hope you get what you're looking for here, if not let me know so I can include it for everyone else.

This morning I came across a piece that describes what life is like for a lot of seniors. I though it worth adding here. The Golden Past The barista wrote "Mark" on my cup every morning for two years. When I finally corrected her, she stopped coming to work. I'm not Mark. My name is David. But every single morning at 6:45 AM, the barista at the Starbucks on Fifth Street would write "Mark" on my cup. Medium dark roast. Black. No sugar. "Here you go, Mark," she'd say, sliding the cup across the counter. The first time it happened, I almost corrected her. But the line behind me was long, and she was already helping the next person. I figured she'd realize eventually. She didn't. Week after week. Month after month. "Morning, Mark." "There you go, Mark." "See you tomorrow, Mark." I stopped trying to correct her. It became a routine. My name was David everywhere else. But at 6:45 AM at the Starbucks on Fifth Street, I was Mark. I didn't mind. She was nice. Always smiling. Always fast. Her name tag said "Claire." She looked about sixty. Gray hair pulled back. Reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She moved slower than the younger baristas, but she never messed up an order. And she remembered everyone. Not just their drinks. Their lives. "How'd your daughter's recital go?" "Did your mom's surgery go okay?" "You get that promotion?" She asked me about Mark's life. I never corrected her. Sometimes I even played along. "How's work, Mark?" "Busy," I'd say. "You staying warm out there?" "Trying to." It felt harmless. This went on for two years. Then one Monday morning, Claire wasn't there. A younger guy was at the register instead. "Medium dark roast, black," I said. "Name?" "Mark." He wrote it on the cup without looking up. It felt wrong. Tuesday, Claire wasn't there either. Wednesday, same thing. By Thursday, I asked. "Where's Claire?" The barista shrugged. "She stopped showing up. Management's trying to get in touch with her." "Is she okay?" "No idea, man. You want whipped cream on that?"