Lunch crumbed the kitchen table,

drops of melted cheese and pickle ends, 

apple cores and soda cans,

the LA Times piled on a chair,

the puzzle partially filled in.

She asked about school,

work, my parakeet,

my car.

Good, good, I replied, in our way.

Everything

good.

 

She reached out then

and touched my hair

Your hair is so shiny,

she murmured, pale blue eyes

rimmed with thick glasses,

uncertain as a wild-caught ghost.

      

I leaned into the ache

of her touch,

silent, wanting

to press that moment

into the album of my memory,

but asking instead

if she needed help

with the crossword puzzle.

 

© by Ruth Gooley.

Used with the author’s permission.