How Sweet It Is

 This weekend escape ends.
My sister and I pack and prepare
to drive my parents back home.
Dad’s oxygen machine and walker
rattle among suitcases that hold pills,
extra changes of Depends,
boxes of wet and soiled clothes.
 
It takes two of us
to heave his swollen body
from wheelchair to truck
where we position him
in the passenger seat.
 
Halfway between Monterey and Modesto,
we stop for lunch at Andersen’s,
wrestle him from pickup to chair,
chair to walker, through door after door,
to the tiny public restroom
where my mother assists
as we anxiously wait.
 
In the coffee shop,
my father spurns the healthy soup,
orders hot apple pie á la mode,
a cup of black coffee.
He smiles, spills pastry
and smears melting ice cream,
across his sweat pants and shirt.
 
Tonight, he will return
to the sofa where he waits,
day after day,
for sleep, the next meal,
his eventual death.
 
But today, he is just another diner,
hungry and pausing mid-journey
to break the long fast.
He laughs and chews,
savors every sweet bite.

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© Copyright 2010, Jennifer Lagier.
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