The Widows' Handbook: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival

The Acropolis Diner

memories, ghosts, dreams 119 The Acropolis Diner Heather Candels Our menus flopped open and we looked but ordered the same thing every time Me, hard eggs, You, corned beef Us, whole wheat toast, coffee, cool water ice cubes jingling, melting. Our future sat near us in the red vinyl booth cozy like the bowl of oatmeal on the counter, still time for raisins, sprinkles of sugar, or a trickle of syrup before it got cold. Sweet roll aroma curled around us like kittens. I swizzled cream into coffee while you buried yourself in the sports pages where every day was new. Sometimes winners lost and sometimes losers won. Stadiums went up, and stadiums came down. Stavros barked orders over his bushy mustache, ripped off tickets 120 the widows’ handbook clipped them to the wheel for short order cooks ready to flip today’s specials. Plates slid off his arm like colorful Cadillacs floating down a parade of promise gliding right onto our table. And we ate, never paying attention to the taste, or the sugar that sat in the bowl, the syrup that hardened in the jar the sweet raisins we left in the box. Peeking through those windows now that you’re gone, I see a blue interior, higher prices no sign of Stavros. Still, the hash keeps frying, the eggs keep breaking, and that smell lingers when someone pushes open the door. ...