His shoulders shook.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mom smiled.
“Good.”
Then she picked up her coffee pot.
“Now, would you like something to eat?”
Michael let out a shaky laugh.
He looked toward Walt.
Then back at Mom.
“Actually, yes.”
“What’ll it be?”
He swallowed.
“The usual.”
Mom tilted her head.
“From 1979?”
Michael nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mom smiled.
“Coming right up.”
When she walked away, Michael returned to the booth.
Walt didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
Michael sat in the seat where he’d eaten pancakes as a boy.
His phone remained in his pocket.
For the first time that morning, he seemed completely present.
When the food arrived, Mom placed a pancake on a separate plate in front of him.
Michael stared at it.
Then covered his face.
Walt reached across the table.
He rested one weathered hand on his son’s wrist.
And for a moment, I saw two people sitting in that booth who were separated by nearly fifty years.
