View From ThE Apple House

The restaurant was filled to capacity, as is usual during the busy summer boating season.  My boyfriend and I were escorted by the flustered young hostess to the small table closest to the door, a seat we were thankful to get amongst sun burned, salty smelling diners who had arrived  before us.  Since it looked like bar was also filled to the brim with happy, boisterous patrons, we quickly took our seats and ordered a drink while the evening special list was placed on the table.  The sun was shining and everyone was hungry, the beginning of happy hour living up to its image.

I stared at my menu, trying to decide what to choose since I wanted to have a light dinner, and didn’t notice the couple right away, sitting at the end of the table for six.  They were slightly to the right of us; I couldn’t see her face at all as she sat at the end of row of people, and only the left profile of his. Since her back was to me, I could only surmise the woman was tall and strong looking, dark haired and tan as evidenced by her right arm.  If I had been able to see her face, I would imagine it as somewhat lined but with straight, white teeth.  She sat perfectly still, her right hand slightly raised, as if beginning to punctuate a thought.

The man was also tall, but his build more slender than his companion.  They obviously were among friends and/or family, for they felt no awkwardness in the actions they were taking.  The air was filled with conversation and laughter, and I watched them as they began what seemed to be a meal time ritual.

I watched as he smiled at her, and imagined she smiling back at him.  Salads were placed in front of the both of them, but when he picked up his fork and stabbed a section of lettuce, he turned towards her and raised it up to place into her mouth.

He was feeding her.

She held her right hand as if holding her own fork, and as she lifted her arm up to feed herself, he fed another forkful of salad to her.

They continued like this, all the while he chatting away with the people  sitting with them. They did not act like anything was out of the ordinary; they were just eating a meal together.

Her hand raised up with its imaginary fork, and he fed her; hand up, fork in; hand up, fork in.  Over and over and over.

He did not touch his own plate until she had finished hers; and each time, he smiled lovingly towards her.

There were no tell tale signs of exasperation or inconvenience; no short words or hurried motions.

It was the truest form of love I had ever witnessed.

I can only assume the woman had suffered some kind of brain injury or perhaps even a stroke.

I looked at my companion with tears in my eyes, and was surprised he had them as well.

“I would do that for you” he whispered, and then our server came to take our order.

Finally, the man looked over at me and smiled, knowing I had witnessed a private moment.  I smiled back.

Their meal had arrived and he turned his attention back to the woman, ready and waiting to feed herself as her mind imagined it had been doing all along.

I didn’t see what it was, but it didn’t matter.

The main ingredient was love.