A Park Bench in Marseilles

My grandmother and I sit waiting
for my mother to return from her

rendezvous with a waiter she met
at lunch. Somewhere between a

first course and last, an agreement
had been reached. My grandmother

is not happy as she sits with me
among beautiful flowers of a spring

day–their little heads bobbing in a
slight wind, they call children to

their games. The waiter is handsome,
tall, dark, well-built, black clothes

of his trade set off a sparkle in his
dark brown eyes. I wonder how

many times this week, perhaps this
month, he has met women in this

park. Is my mother the only who
has stirred his desire to leave the

restaurant early to meet a French-
American on holiday. Perhaps he

is taken by her accent, still French
but laced with confident American

English. She, taken by someone
French after living in the states

twenty years. That is how old I am,
twenty. She has asked me not to

call her mother, would I possibly
pretend she is my sister, and it is

no stretch for her to fill that role.
Funny how alike my mother and

grandmother are as I have heard
stories from my mother—how hurt

she was when her mother had
asked her to call her sister. Right

now I know my mother isn’t
remembering stories. Right now,

she is caught up in the headiness
of being desired.