I set out a road to the elegy, a soft brown loaf, a dependable hat, my mother in a tin jar at the next table. The busboy all flutter and ash. We prime the loam to catch every word, pretend to spill the water on purpose. I slip him a feather, but this is serious, he's tangled persimmons and sweat, eyeing the chairs. He can make out the fight, and I won't tell him he's wrong: Meet me with bells on, Quaker Street, I whisper, visualize the covers. I promise not to blink hard enough to erase it.

Later he's in the weeds running drinks to the Square, putting pickles on the rims instead of lemons. Bring oranges, she's not like to come again, someone jabs a finger toward my mother's screw-on lid. Peeled. She's in no condition to wrestle with a skin. Pruney needs like elephants, these digits. I'm always outnumbered. Silly woman, I half want to yell, they're not even in season. But the quality is this, I kiss him on the temple and stick there, a forgiveness sharp as vowels, furred as plants, a wrench in the story, true, but smooth as any needle.