I know my friend is going,though she still sits thereacross from me in the restaurant,and leans over the table to dipher bread in the oil on my plate; I knowhow thick her hair used to be,and what it takes for her to discardher man’s cap partway through our meal,to look straight at the young waiterand smile when he askshow we are liking it. She eatsas though starving—chicken, dolmata,the buttery flakes of filo—and what’s killing hereats, too. I watch her lifta glistening black olive and peelthe meat from the pit, watchher fine long fingers, and her face,puffy from medication. She lowersher eyes to the food, pretendingnot to know what I know. She’s going.And we go on eating.
Oh, how I love this woman’s writing!
Her website: http://www.kimaddonizio.com