She is mostly blind with occasional
bursts of light but mostly darkness.
But every day she goes out for dinner.
I help her lift herself into the car,
connect her seat belt, smooth her
purple cashmere scarf over her shoulders.
Today I take to her favorite bistro
my arm around her, maneuvering
the walker to ease her into the chair,
pushing her close to the table.
She is wearing her favorite pin,
a delicate gold filagree tree
with garnet chips for leaves.
I read her the menu and she asks
the waiter about the specials.
For years she went out for dinner,
immersed in the buzz of voices.
She doesn’t want help with her fork
which she lowers to the plate
like a giant crane. With peas
she rarely spears one.
Today she orders French toast.
I cut thick squares like a checkerboard,
pour on Maple syrup and help her
hold her fork. She rarely misses,
lifts one square after the next.
She will not let anyone help her,
but she cannot see that I move
the plate under her fork. I hope
that if I reach such an age
I can live with such an appetite
for life, braving the world
each night for dinner, dressing
slowly, maneuvering
to an evening meal, that burst of light
in a day of mostly darkness.
