Grandfathers

I have outlived my life. My son-in-law opens doors for me, drags my oxygen tank around on a metal cart. I stop at every intersection, waiting for honks. I cannot see the lights. Sometimes, I go out to dinner, alone. “How many tonight, sir?” “Just one; just me.” I follow the hostess to a booth, set for two. She smiles at me as she removes one set of silverware, and I stare at the empty space in front of me.