She took my final
order. Brought me my first
martini. Served me my last
dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant.
She was at least my dad’s age, 70, which is why
we were there, where
we’d dined for, oh, 35 years.
“She came with the place,” Dad said.
She served us the dregs of some other table’s tortilla
chips, never refilled our water or tea,
read her tip in front of us and scowled (though
it was well past 15 percent).
“She was your mom’s favorite.”
Ha! Lovely scene. thanks!
On more thing…touching.
Marilyn Yocum says
You’re turned my summer upside-down, Ms. Willome. Poetry everywhere! Love this, though it makes me a little afraid of the chip basket. 🙂
Clif W DRUMMOND says