Wednesday Night

Wednesday night, I picked my father up for dinner.
We went to his favorite place.

I pulled his chair out for him and tucked him in,
habit taking over my reflexes.

The waiter walked up for our orders.
My father gave him his, then turned to look at me.

“What’s your favorite food?” he asked,
his frown spreading across his wrinkled forehead.

“Doesn’t matter,” I told him,
and ordered what my mom used to eat.

He passed his drink to me—
a truce maybe.
Or an apology.

Bottoms up.

I didn’t like it,
yet I let it wash
the words stuck in my throat
down.



P.S: contest.


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