Forgetful

The diner was quieter that day. A few booths were occupied by families and couples that were minding the silence and conversing softly, but other than that it was empty. It wasn’t often that we had so few customers, especially on a Sunday morning, when diners tend to be at their busiest. Although I was especially appreciative, and frankly, in desperate need of the tips I often received from larger crowds, the quiet was a nice change of pace every now and then.

    I had lost interest in the bland conversations held in the kitchen, and volunteered to take the next few orders. I scanned the nearly empty diner. A group of teenagers had been served at table five, forks and cell phones in hand. Table twelve had also been taken care of, though the couple sitting there seemed far more interested in dreamily staring into each other's eyes than eating their breakfasts. My eyes fell on table three, inhabited by a menu standing tall enough to conceal whoever was hidden behind it. I grabbed a notepad, tucked a pen behind my ear, and headed over to the booth.

    “Are you ready to order?” I asked in my overly-cheery waitress voice that noticeably contrasted from my tired eyes and untamed hair.

    The menu lowered to reveal an old man, his face creased with wrinkles and a smile, his wispy hair swept to one side of his face. He wore a small checkered bow tie and a white button down shirt that smelled strongly of lavender laundry detergent. “Indeed I am,” he replied warmly.

    But I didn’t hear him. My artificial smile faded from my face as a gasp escaped my lips. My eyes widened at the sight of him, my head swarming with questions. The silence was suddenly stifling.

    His bright smile dimmed as mine did. “Are you alright, miss? Is something the matter?”

    I stared at the man for a moment longer before quickly returning to my senses, straightening my back, and repeating my question- “Are you ready to order?”

    He grinned. “I think I’ll have three large blueberry pancakes with bacon as my side,” he said carefully, trying not to stumble over his words.

    I jotted down his order in a hurry, swallowing the lump in my throat and willing the tears to go away.

    He looked up at me again, worry creasing his forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright, miss?” He asked again.

    I was not alright, and I couldn’t bring myself to lie. I simply stared at him, unsure of how to answer.

    “I’ve been told I’m a very good listener,” he said, setting down the menu and leaning back in his booth. He gestured to the seat across from him. “If you aren’t too busy, would you like to tell me what’s troubling you?”

    I bit my lip and nodded, slipping into the seat and trying to avoid his gaze.

    “Now, what seems to be the issue?” He asked softly.

    I sighed, my eyes trained on the table as I thought through my words. “Someone I know is… very sick. I’m worried for him. I don’t know how much time I have left with him.” I told the man as much of the truth that I could manage to without crying, though the tears threatened to spill over at any second.

    The old man nodded slowly, processing my problem. “This is someone close to you, I presume. Family member?”

    My watery eyes met his blue ones. I nodded. “I miss him.”

    The man cocked his head. “Well as long as he’s still here with you, you have no reason to be missing him just yet, now do you?”

    The tears began to overflow, painting wet streaks on my cheeks. I needed to get away. I couldn’t stand to think about it anymore.

    “You don’t get it,” I said, shaking my head. “You don’t understand. It’s complicated.” My voice wavered furiously as I fidgeted with the pen and notepad. Blueberry pancakes and bacon. Mom used to make it all the time.

    “You’re right. I don’t. I’m sorry.” He folded his hands together, leaning closer to me. “Well, I fear I’m not as good of a therapist as I hoped. Perhaps I can let you get back to work, so you can take your mind off things for a bit.”

    Without warning, he reached out an aged and trembling hand and placed it on top of mine. The warmth of his touch exploded across my skin as my heartbeat quickened. The tears fell faster as I watched them drip down my chin and splash onto the dark wood of the table. His hand was soft, gentle, and undoubtedly familiar. The old man smiled sympathetically and pat my hand once more.

    “Don’t forget the bacon now,” he chuckled. “I’m rather fond of bacon.”

    I managed to return his smile through my tear stained face before clumsily attempting to dry my eyes with my apron. I grabbed the notebook and clutched it tightly as though afraid I would forget his order, though I already knew it by heart. I slid out of the booth, watching his blue eyes sparkle in the fluorescent lights of the diner. I stared at him until he lifted the menu once more and I could no longer see his face. I immediately wondered if it was all some cruel trick my mind played on me. But my hand still tingled from the warmth of his touch, and I knew that even though he wouldn’t be able to remember, I would never forget.

    I peered back around the corner once more to watch his toes tapping happily under the shadow of the table, to see his fingers drumming on the edge of the laminated menu. The faint sound of quiet conversation and forks scraping against plates faded away as I watched him. Into the deafening quiet of the diner, I whispered the words so softly, I could hardly tell if they managed to escape my lips-

    “I love you dad.”