Wait-ing
The slow table shuffle of Tuesday nights
not enough business to make any money
I give in to reality and try to be as pleasant as I can.
Refill hot tea water, try to boost the radiators,
make Ryan laugh.
Don't bug the cook.
Two men walk in. Table 8 - mine.
One has thick, long blonde hair and earrings,
the other is very thin, tall, dark hair with glasses - vegetarian looking.
Mm, two men.
I approach, laying on the subtle mix of easygoing,
cool and female charm,
they ask standard questions, we joke, they order.
Blonde goes to the bathroom and dark calls me
over, hasty. It's my friend's birthday - do you think
you could put a candle on what he orders for dessert?
I wink and nod - these are things we do here.
It's his birthday, of course, be happy to.
I deliver dinner, they eat, talk, laugh. Dark
finishes and walks languidly to the dessert case.
His friend isn't looking - he motions me over, out of sight
makes his request. I wink again, the waitress.
He turns again to the case - I notice his body.
He is taller than I thought, thin, long.
I know someone who looks like this. Someone
who is supposed to keep in touch
and send me some of his stories.
I make a latte and heat up Espresso Cake and
think of how the weeks have slipped by and
the tall, thin man hasn't called or written.
I feel angry, here we go again.
And I thought we were making
progress. But we aren't, I should know, we never do.
We just fumble at words, buttons, apologies and then
both escape. Are we smarter, have we grown? Or
are we deeper, connecting ourselves unmercifully,
not meaning to—not needing this on top of everything
else. The doubts fly and I shiver.
Distance lets me know distance
I don't know him at all anymore.
The espresso cake has melted.
Blonde and dark sit for another hour.
I keep filling water glasses,
they talk loudly, enjoying each other as I watch.
They leave a nice tip, and
when I'm looking the other way,
slip out.
Feels familiar.
—Heather Siemsen Farha
Family News
My brother called today
Wanted to know - did you get email from mom?
Boots died.
There's a picture in our family album
of a young boy, smooth cheeks
hair combed for Grandma
roughing it up in the yard with Boots,
our grandparents farm dog.
The boy's right arm is around
the flecked grey squirming body
and the dog's mouth is delicately chomping down on
the boy's left wrist.
They are circling each other, attached, whole
as boy and dog should be.
My brother never had dog.
When I ask him
Are you sad? He says to me
She was the closest thing I ever had to having a pet.
He mocks a whimpering sad voice, to say he's ok
but still, he called to tell me.
Grandma and Grandpa let us pick out the puppy
when we were small.
We drove to a farm and the fat, warm bodies rushed
out to meet us,
Boots was the only one we could
hold - she stayed calm
she had found us, picked us out
picked out my brother.
Christmas this year we were at the farm
Boots couldn't run out to meet us
her arthritis and the cold made her limp slowly.
We wanted to pet her but she looked afraid
touches hurt her somehow
I wished we had petted her more
when she was young and we could.
The only people she would let touch her
were Grandpa and my brother.
And he called to tell me,
to talk about Boots.
—Heather Siemsen Farha
