Soapbox

Dinner with Grandpa

He squints fiercely at the menu,
bright pages of heiroglyphics
for which he has no Rosetta Stone.
And so again and again he must ask,
What does this say?

Fine, I’ll have one of that, please.

He puzzles over the knife and fork-
which water glass is his?
He realizes he is holding the spoon is upside down
and rights it with a smile
as fragile as new ice.

The conversation flows around him,
friends and family
speaking in a language
that he is slowly learning in reverse.

He mostly watches the world now,
pretending he isn’t struggling
to make sense of it,
his pleasant demeanor
masking a fierce resolve
to surrender nothing without a fight.

The children are so gracious,
never stare or seem impatient
as he tries to locate his errant water glass once again.
He does not say how much he loves them
except with the look in his eyes
each time he says goodbye,
hoping he will recall their names
the next time they visit.

The water glass, nearly spilled,
is righted again
and the meal ends with nothing broken
except everyone’s heart.