The Procession

            He walks her to the bathroom.  “This is the ladies’ room.  If there’s no toilet paper in there, come back out, okay?  I’ll make sure you get some.”  He opens the door and she shuffles inside.  He closes the door behind her.

“It can be tough when you get older!” he remarks to a young man taking notice of the conversation.

“Oh yeah,” the young man laughs, looking down at the plate.  

He waits by the door. When she emerges, he asks, “Did you wash your hands?”

She asks questions too.

“What town are we in?”

“Westport.”

“What?” She cranes her neck.

“Oh, your hearing aids are in backwards.”  With soft fingertips, he combs back her white blonde hair, takes out her hearing aids, and inserts them into the opposite ears.

“Ouch,” she says.

“Sorry.  Is that better?”  He brushes her hair back over her ears, arranging the long strands on her shoulders.  “We’re in Westport.”

“What are we doing here?”

“John and Mary are coming to meet us here.” 

“Here?  In this restaurant?”

“Yep!”  He squeezes her hand.  “You had to go to the bathroom, said you felt pressure.   So I figured it was better if they met us in Starbucks.”

“They are meeting us here?”

“Uh huh.” 

“What town are we in?”

“Westport.”

“Oh.”

He hands her a drink.  “Careful now, it’s hot!” 

She nods, staring at her cup. He leads her down an exciting array of do’s and did’s, future and past.  Mary and John… kids… looking forward to the visit… pumpkin season.  Remember twenty years ago? Those pumpkins?  This afternoon, quite the harvest… Her eyes track his lips and animated gestures.

His phone beeps.  “Change of plans. We’re meeting them at a place not far away.  Time to go, love.”  He stands and holds out his hand, which she examines and then grips.  He lifts her up and guides her forward, never rushing, ever matching her step-hold-step.