To the Woman at the Diner, I Saw You

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I saw you walk into the diner with your husband.

Your back tired from years of living; your face pointed to the ground.

I saw you walk into the diner and I thought to myself I don’t want to get old.

I don’t want to sit across from my love and sit in silence because I cannot hear, I cannot see.

I saw the cataracts floating in your quiet eyes.

I saw your knuckles rising like mountains through the terrain of your hands.

I saw the permanent scowl you never asked for.

I daydreamed about your life, your marriage, about the emptiness you might feel right now.

I watched you from over my love’s shoulder, sitting in silence, staring at the table, lost in your own thoughts.

I also watched as you picked up your straw and blew the wrapper into your husband’s face.

And I watched as you clapped your hands and laughed until tears formed in your no longer quiet eyes.