When my father, who never took me out,
asked where we should go to have a talk
man-to-man about important stuff, I suggested
Osco’s. On school days I ate lunch there,
where lovely Brenda knew my order by heart:
a dog with catsup and onions. Fries. A Coke.
Her smile, her cherry lips—she was drenched
in light from the big windows. I ate, dreaming,
with my junior-high friends, future lives
where we might find girls like Brenda.
But on that night with Dad, a hairy cook
wiped Formica under fluorescent lights,
and the big windows reflected us in a booth,
where my father told me, before the food came,
that he was dying. I saw the reflection of me
unable to close my ears. I saw my father blink
and I realized then how drunk he was. I couldn’t 
touch the food, couldn’t listen. I made him drive
us home, weaving through the darkened streets,
where I felt lost though I knew every block by heart.
It took five years for him to die, and years after that
the restaurant burned down. I found my Brenda,
though, and we have a family. Still, at dinner,
sometimes, death takes the seat across from me.

---

Author:

Stephen Coyne taught American literature and creative writing at Morningside College for thirty years. He is past faculty adviser for Kiosk and proud to be included in its pages.

Artist:

Makaelyn Glienke is a senior double majoring in Advertising and Photography. Her photography career began by taking sports photos, but now she has ventured into more fashion and portrait photography.