A love poem for my friend who lives in Idaho
We’re out to lunch on the corner of 4th and Sherman. Authentic Greek Food in Idaho. What a gem. We both ordered iced tea, black and no sugar with lemon. We exchange looks about our affinity for loving the same things. We’ve already ordered our gyros when we start to name off the quirky decorations; faux ivy to hide the blue painters tape. A paper sign with someone’s sisters writing, NO CHECKS. I imagine the need to cover the dingy walls and electrical wire comes from the same place as all imagination, Desperate Need. Years of neglected side work. The girls here are tired. Their babies are at home, waiting. It has been a long day already and faux green ivory will fix it all up, make it better. I stare deeply into the pulled back scrunchie our waitress wears and I hear it whisper, Don’t look at where I haven’t been. Trace instead the unfurling lines of bright never-dull green.
There are of course, battery operated candles set on the table. Bronze picture frames left to collect a museum of dust bunnies. Rather than air conditioning an ease of banter between old friends fills the air. The two us sliding in and out of silly and serious. We always do this. Sweat beads outside the oversized beveled plastic. The waitress overfilled our cups and felt no need to explain herself. There is too much ice and not enough tea. We speak loudly of our seven sons, something two queers in Idaho can be proud of. Between the two of us, we name their 8 faults and the 9 things we love about them. Instead of appetizers we ask each other who do your children remind you of and why is it that, despite the years of therapy, we haven’t healed enough to break those perpetual cycles? People Pleasing we decide, is incurable, it infiltrates the bone. Of our mothers we break eye contact. Whisper about the way aging both solidifies and dissolves our loyalties to them.
The feta cheese rolls out of its breaded blanket. Makes mini snowman-like piles on the formica tabletop. I pick up red onions with my fingers and dutifully stuff them back inside. Everytime I’m with you, I want the perfect bite. You recount the terror of raising a teenager and almost suddenly you remember you don’t have a car. And can I drive you to counseling? It occurs to us at the same time, we chew loudly. It occurs to us at the same time, we heal out loud. I ask the waitress for coffee and baklava. They are retrieved from the glass case that from any vantage point in the restaurant can be seen. It’s more like an exotic fish tank than a pie case. Two baklavas arrive warm and oozing. I’m about to eat the whole plate when I see the small chip on the rim, a choking hazard.
I’m afraid of all the things I want.
Nothing here is new. We glance at each other knowing we both like it this way: the same cafe, the same decades old decor, the laminated and teethed menus and us. Just the same two friends we’ve always been- something to be proud of.
