Christopher Howell

 This poem reminds me so much of Nat and Sophie my Brighton Beach Brooklyn Grandparents, I sent it to my siblings.

Dinner Out by Christopher Howell We went to either the Canton Grill or the Chinese Village, both of them on Eighty-second among the car lots and discount stores and small nests of people waiting hopelessly for the bus. I preferred the Canton for its black and bright red sign with the dragon leaping out of it and sneezing little pillows of smoke. And inside, the beautiful green half-shell booths, glittery brass encrusted lamps swinging above them. What would I have? Sweet and sour? Chow mein with little wagon wheel- shaped slices of okra and those crinkly noodles my father called deep fried worms? Fried rice? Among such succulence, what did it matter? We could eat 'til we were glad and full, the whole family sighing with the pleasure of it. And then the tea All of this for about six bucks, total, my father, for that once-in-a-while, feeling flush in the glow of our happy faces and asking me, "How you doing, son?" Fine, Dad. Great, really, in the light of that place, almost tasting the salt and bean paste and molasses, nearly hearing the sound of the car door opening before we climbed in together and drove and drove, though we hadn't far to go. "Dinner Out" by Christopher Howell, from Light's Ladder. © University of Washington Press, 2004.