Calvin wheels himself out of his room, 30 minutes late.
He does like those television shows.
It’s the dinner bell at Grand Cove, and he knows it won’t be good.
Hamburgers at lunch turns into beef stew at supper.
At 53, he’s the youngest resident, and better off than most.
Certainly not like the lady who cries all the time and tells the nurse such things as, “Don’t take that because it’s not there.”
I go there to visit my mother-in-law, but like to see Calvin too.
We knew each other back in college, more than acquaintances; not quite best friends.
That honor went to his buddy Lewis, who grew up and attended school with him in Westlake.
Calvin always talks about Lewis. I saw them both, many a time in 1982.
They were best friends, and you could tell.
Calvin and I were brief roommates in a frat house, and he loved to eat.
My passion was beer; his, food. And when I could only afford a Coke and fries, Calvin was there.
“Let’s go get some McDonald’s,” he’d say. I think he had some of his grandma’s inheritance money.
But I can’t remember too well. Neither can Calvin.
I do know he’s in a wheelchair, and was a teacher before that.
He taught somewhere in Crowley; not sure which grade.
He doesn’t remember their names, but faces always go across space and time.
A brain tumor stopped Calvin from what he loved, and there’s a slight indentation in his forehead. I guess many wouldn’t consider him lucky, but sometimes I do.
He doesn’t have to worry about high gas prices, or how screwed up the country is.
He comes back from dinner for another night, and turns on the television.
And he does remember Lewis.

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