What were their names? I knew them
once. They arrived at the mall diner
every afternoon at 4, and I’d greet them
with silverware already in hand, follow
them back to their booth—always
the same one across from the kitchen.
Why can’t I picture her face? I see
his thick black-rimmed glasses, the lines
of his forehead, but her features slipped
my mind, or maybe I never looked her
straight in the eyes. Once, she snapped
at a server who wouldn’t pick the beans
out of her minestrone. Another day,
she showed up in wrinkled pajama pants
and a wool winter coat and a scowl.
We’d whisper as we wiped counters:
Was it dementia? Did they have anyone
to look after them? Who was she before
she yelled at waitresses over unwanted
beans? Did anyone grab that decaf coffee
for table 5? No? I’ll get it. Spring came,
and the piles of parking lot snow melted
into the asphalt cracks. The mall walkers
stopped pacing the halls. I moved west,
started college. Still, all these years later
the smell of onions frying takes me back
there before I can resist. Still, I wonder
if the regulars come in for supper. What
were their names? Memory will fail us all
in the end; still, someone may shrug off
your unkindness, someone may place
a cup of warm soup in your hands.
By Claire Buck