From Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul

Dinner Out

We went to a little cafe

just off the campus

to have a quiet dinner together,

the college students there

eating, discussing deep philosophical issues.

You sat at our table

looking suave and debonair in jeans and turtleneck,

your tousled hair shining,

your eyes sparkling, full of mischief.

And you worked your charms

on me and everyone around.

The waitress doted on you,

your cup always filled

“An extra napkin? Certainly!”

“More crackers for your soup? Of course!”

You flirted notoriously with her

and with the hostess as well,

flashing seductive grins at them,

inviting them to talk,

eating only the fringes of your meal.

Twice you left our table

to walk around

and spread your charms elsewhere,

stopping at a table or two,

grinning broadly, flirtatiously,

soliciting conversation.

I watched you captivate their hearts

and knew you had taken mine,

as I sat quietly observing.

Finally, folding my dinner napkin patiently

and placing it beside my finished plate,

I knew it was time to go,

and walking up to you I said,

“Let’s say good-bye.”

And picking you up, I placed you

in your stroller,

and as we left,

you waved profusely at everyone,

after your first dinner out with Grandma,

when you were only two.

Maryann Lee Jacob

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