12 June 2016

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.”



  1. Ha! Lovely scene. thanks!

  2. On more thing…touching.

  3. You’re turned my summer upside-down, Ms. Willome. Poetry everywhere! Love this, though it makes me a little afraid of the chip basket. 🙂

  4. Clif W DRUMMOND says