Eating Together
"Eating Together"
by. Kim Addonizio
I know my friend is going,
though she still sits there
across from me in the restaurant,
and leans over the table to dip
her bread in the oil on my plate; I know
how thick her hair used to be,
and what it takes for her to discard
her man's cap partway through our meal,
to look straight at the young waiter
and smile when he asks
how we are liking it. She eats
as though starving-chicken, dolmata,
the buttery flakes of filo-
and what's killing her
eats, too. I watch her lift
a glistening black olive and peel
the meat from the pit, watch
her fine long fingers, and her face,
puffy from medication. She lowers
her eyes to the food, pretending
not to know what I know. She's going.
And we go on eating.
Found this poem on exceptindreams and I decided right then that this would be my poem of the day. This took me back, back to when I wrote poetry much like this. Back to when I was so sure that I would be a 21 year old widow who lost her husband to cancer. Back to when I remember calling my bishop in the middle of the night because my husband had finally gotten out of the hospital to only catch something and strike up a 106 degree temperature which I was sure would boil his brain and kill him. It is so hard to watch someone go through something like that, especially when they are close to you. You watch as they are eaten away from the inside, you watch as they grow weaker and weaker. And you realize at some point that you need to treasure every day you have with them. At the time I remember saying to myself, "If I can make it through this then I can make it through anything." Well I made it, now I think I just need to remember that.
by. Kim Addonizio
I know my friend is going,
though she still sits there
across from me in the restaurant,
and leans over the table to dip
her bread in the oil on my plate; I know
how thick her hair used to be,
and what it takes for her to discard
her man's cap partway through our meal,
to look straight at the young waiter
and smile when he asks
how we are liking it. She eats
as though starving-chicken, dolmata,
the buttery flakes of filo-
and what's killing her
eats, too. I watch her lift
a glistening black olive and peel
the meat from the pit, watch
her fine long fingers, and her face,
puffy from medication. She lowers
her eyes to the food, pretending
not to know what I know. She's going.
And we go on eating.
Found this poem on exceptindreams and I decided right then that this would be my poem of the day. This took me back, back to when I wrote poetry much like this. Back to when I was so sure that I would be a 21 year old widow who lost her husband to cancer. Back to when I remember calling my bishop in the middle of the night because my husband had finally gotten out of the hospital to only catch something and strike up a 106 degree temperature which I was sure would boil his brain and kill him. It is so hard to watch someone go through something like that, especially when they are close to you. You watch as they are eaten away from the inside, you watch as they grow weaker and weaker. And you realize at some point that you need to treasure every day you have with them. At the time I remember saying to myself, "If I can make it through this then I can make it through anything." Well I made it, now I think I just need to remember that.