Saturday, October 5, 2013

The Routine

It's always the same color soap in the bathroom when I wash my hands exactly five minutes before our reservation at the closest purveyor of the fancified internal organs that my grandmother craves each day. Then it's always the same confusion about how to get there: The silver car, inherited from Grandma and covered in craters? In the shop. The old, blue padded wheelchair that may or may not have brake broken like bones? In the back. And finally, as always, we decide to escort an 79 year old woman with an entire entourage of Macy's blouses and mid-price crystal and gem necklaces through the city streets on a snazzily red motorized scooter seat.

We arrive at the restaurant and there is tremendous brouhaha over where is the scooter going? Does it fit at the table? Can we park it outside? Where's the key? And I've memorized every answer, encrypted it onto my muscle memory. We slide into old chairs and pore over the same menu that's graced the paper-covered table for at least five years. Me: Beet salad. Smoked gouda macaroni and cheese. Chocolate tart. After the menus go away, the walls come down; pleasantries cower in fear as the traditional politics and awkwardness flood the space. We put up levees and arms in front of our face, but everyone ends up getting yet. But then. like always, we climb back around and into that startling scarlet seat and left the scene of the crime. I love her.

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