Tony Ramsay

STANSTED AIRPORT

Mother and youngest - daughter -
sat opposite father and son -
his younger brother.
He looked about age nineteen,
maybe twenty.
He sat at the end of the table.
It accommodated the wheelchair best.
Their food order arrived, carried
by a waiter who looked
overworked and underage.
His was a bowl of steaming penne pasta
smothered in a deep red sauce.
Drinks arrived.
Fizzy lemonade for the two youngest,
wine for the mother, and beer;
for him and his father
a half-pint and a bottle.
It took several minutes
to scoop few pasta
onto the large spoon
held in his jerking right hand,
several more minutes to raise
the swaying spoon to his mouth,
by which time most of the pasta
had returned to the bowl,
the floor, and his lap.
Indeed, the spoon was often empty
upon reaching his mouth.
Thirty, maybe forty minutes passed,
and with careful and gentle precision
he placed the spoon into the bowl.
He looked toward his father.
Measured and slow came the words:
"Dad.
Can
you
help
please."
"Sure son,"came the soft reply.
One spoonful after another
his father scooped the dishevelled
pasta toward his son's open mouth,
whilst he, the whole time, looked
into his father's eyes as if seeing
something wondrous
and beautiful
for the first time.
He smiled as he swallowed
as his mother scolded
his sister and brother;
"Behave!" And I,

I resisted the urge
to introduce myself
as I left for Gate 88.

Tony Ramsay lives in Derry, Northern Ireland. His poetry has been published in anthologies Affairs of the Heart and Harrowing of the Heart: The Poetry of Bloody Sunday. A carpenter/joiner by trade, he re-trained, and currently works as a social worker for children and adults with learning/physical disability.