Last Saturday, at Tina’s for breakfast, with all the guys after our morning run, FrontRunners, I noticed an older women sitting at the table by the window. Her back was to the window. She ordered the same thing I did… chicken salad. They always give customers way too much stuff on the sandwiches at Tina’s! The place was busy, as usual. It isn’t a very big restaurant – owned by a local family, a very nice and fun family of Lebanese derivation, who always treat us gay boys very well. One time, a bit-off women came in and demand to remain at a table they were preparing for us – she just kind of pushed through and sat down, not waiting her turn. She wouldn’t leave. They called the police. She yelled and screamed that they were discriminating against her (she was white, by the way). She told the police how dare they give a table to those fags, those freaks of nature, those immoral perverts. The police took her away.
Where was I? This women was probably in her 70’s, I suspect. She was by herself, but didn’t seem lonely at all. She was beautiful with her smart summer outfit, completely white hair fixed just so but not in a fastidious way, just enough make-up to complement her face. She reminded me so much of my grandmother. I just watched her as she ate her meal, as she watched what was going on around her. Of course, she couldn’t finish the whole sandwich, and neither could I. She asked for a to-go container. I wanted to go up to her and tell her how pretty she was and that she reminded me so much of my grandmother, but I got involved with conversation with the guys and before I knew it she was up and leaving the restaurant.
Now, I think of my grandmother and how grand she is. I think of how pretty she is at 80 years old and how she loves to dress, and how she does very well. I’ve seen a number of people over the years who remind me of my grandmother. I’ve told a couple of them, but their responses where kind of cool. Maybe saying something like that isn’t too cool. Anyway, I think about my grandmother and think how I’m not the best of grandsons. I don’t call her or write nearly as often as I should, nearly as often as I think of her. I wish she knew how much I do think of her, how much I love her. I wish I could discipline myself enough to write or call and tell her. She just got an e-mail account. I think I will e-mail her and tell her.
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