My mother wanted an occasion,
to make a night of it. So the family
drove twenty miles from town to a fancy,
landmark steak house and wine-cellar,
built like a sprawling Dutch barn,
with fake silo and hayrick. The interior
was John Wayne western—spurs and tack,
antler chandeliers, leather banquettes.
Piano music from the Wild Turkey Lounge
drifted out over the packed house.
Our black-tie waiter elaborately detailed
the specials, but what one came here for
was beef—sirloin, Porterhouse, filet,
New York strip, tournedos, ribs.
My mother settled back, said,
“Isn’t this fun?”
On a crowded, weekend night,
we’d been seated near the doors.
Each time they opened they sent
out a chill, where my father, already
shivering from the latest round
of chemo, moved spaghetti from
the Calves Menu around on his plate.
At some point my mother reached over,
took his ball cap from his bald head,
said, “Men don’t wear hats
in a place like this.” None of us
said anything, as beyond us flowed
the scurry of waiters, the scrape
of knives on plates, the murmurous
surf of others’ concerns.