While waiting outside, we kept having to move because there was a group of women smoking. It was probably three generations of women from the same family out for a Mother's Day brunch. One of the women, the oldest, kept looking at a stack of Polaroid pictures in her hand. Each picture was of a different grave with fresh flowers on it. Her shoes were muddy, so I assume they had come straight from the graveyard to brunch. When she would light a new cigarette, she would have to put the pictures in her purse for a moment. After she was comfortably able to inhale smoke again, she would pull them out and look at them stoically.
When we finally got into the restaurant, I saw them at their table with the four pictures in the middle of the table leaning against the tiny metal cream pitcher.
Our waitress was chatty. When she saw the picture of Nancy on her ATM card she did a double take. Nancy's hair is short now, but on the card it's long and curly.
She said, "Oh, I used to have my hair as short as yours. Actually, when I first moved here it was really long and I got a pair of those Wahl clippers and cut all my hair off using the half inch setting. It was easier to take of, but really, I just wanted to know what I would look like if I got cancer."