Lunch date

I have a friend
in his late eighties.
We go to lunch
twice a year.
He holds my arm
like a gentleman
as we take our seats
even though we both know
it is me
holding him up.
A pressed handkerchief,
monogrammed,
he dabs at the wetness
that pools
at the sides of his mouth
and in his eyes,
a slow leak.
He sits up straight.
He always pays.
In between our lunch dates
he sends me a card
or two,
handwritten,
black ink,
shaky careful tilted,
every letter is
an exhale.
The cards are simple
like a child writing home
from camp
or a man at war,
not saying much,
“hope all is well.”
But there is a vulnerability
to them;
the immutability
of pen on paper:
he was thinking
of me.
I heard recently
that he got email.
Perhaps I should have been
encouraging
but I made him blush instead
by begging him to
never use it
on me.