A special restaurant is well,
special, a treat, for an occasion,
as it was last evening. It has
become our local cozy place.
Was it something we discussed?
Was it the fact that my mother’s
birthday was only two days before?
When we decided to share a
tirimasu, she asked us if we
wanted coffee or anything else.
Last time, I got a double espresso.
My mom has been dead for over a
decade. I remembered she didn’t
drink at home but on a special
night out, she’d order her favorite
after dinner liqueur.
“Drambuie on the rocks, please.”
When the waitress brought the drink,
I remembered the dark stout bottle.
(I hear they’ve changed to a plastic
bottle like everyone else!)
Thank God only the bottle may have
changed! The smell of sweet and
trace of licorice was still there.
At first taste I remembered with
fondness how beautiful and sad
my mother was behind her 1940’s
movie star smile.
I shared with my wife why I had
ordered it. She didn’t want a taste.
Lovely dinner; lovely time together.
And now it is Sunday. A toss-up
day for coffee. If she is up first,
she makes Wally for me; if I’m up
first, I make Joe for her.
When she wakes up, she is fully
awake. On the other hand, when
I wake up, I am physically present,
slow to speak, but attentive.
Breakfast was a carbon copy of
yesterday, except for peanut butter;
we were out of almond butter.
Odd, now that I’m old, I think of my
parents more; I didn’t like them very
much when I was young.