At a local chain restaurant,
she sat alone at a table, busy
writing on folded cards,
a pile of finished notes stacked nearby.
Waiting for my son to return,
I said, Catching up on thank-you notes?
when she looked up, I saw

her sad and open face.
I just lost my baby.
Shocked, off balance,
I replied as best I could.
She smiled, But they are
thank-you notes.
She reached out
her hand, I grasped it.
She moved her gaze

back to the pen in her
fingers. My son brought
sandwiches and coffee
to our table.
We talked about
his apartment lease,
a new computer program,
his photos of Forest Park.