What I Read To Her

She held it out at arm's length—

the menu, same as it's been for twenty years.

Her hands were shaking, just slightly.

I noticed. Neither of us let it appear

in conversation. She asked me what it said.

I kept my face the way you keep a face

in this family—neutral, the practiced

nothing of a practiced place.

Eggs Benedict, I told her. Twelve ninety-five.

She nodded. Good. We ordered.

The fluorescent light kept us alive

in the booth we've been sitting in since I was shorter

than the counter. We ate. We talked

about the drive, the weather going gray.

She paid the check. We walked

back to the car. We drove away.

I've been carrying that menu for three days—

the way she held it, and the way I read,

and neither of us saying: this is the phase

where the thing changes. This is the speed

at which it changes.