Lunch Time
. . . at one of the geriatric facilities in which dad is temporarily housed. Ebb, flow, the slow motion rush of the more able residents hoping to beat the queue now that the dining room doors have opened. Save for the walkers and canes and hunched up posture, this crowd acts as do the faculty and students at any school. 80,000 meals into life and still a rush to get there before the cookies run out.
Dad sits across the way. The third of five men lined up single file against a wall, all in wheel chairs, all waiting their turn for the barber. Two of the men waver in and out of sleep; another has open eyes and a vacant looks. When the line moves, though, all come to, find focus enough to protect their spot. Each rolls ahead, no one to be cheated that last snip.
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