His mouth hung open, and on the sides were two wrinkles, like parentheses. I didn't want to wake him, but it was lunchtime and he was asleep in his chair. One of those lazyboy recliners with a massaging neck. Put him right to sleep. That and the big screen TV.

"Wake up, Grandpa," I said. "Soups on."

I touched his shoulder. Plaid, long-sleeve shirt speckled with dead skin. My fingertips felt oily. "Grandpa!" I said. "Wake up."

"Huh? Huh?" He opened his eyes and looked at me. His head was bald and covered in scabs, and his eyebrows were as white as his sideburns. I put the tray in his lap and let the aroma speak to him.
“Why’d you wake me ,” he grumbled. “I was dreaming.”

“'Bout what?" I said.

"I was eating cake," he said. "You know, the angel food."

I glanced at his ear. It looked like a sea urchin lived inside it. "You better eat up." I pointed. "Soup's getting cold."

“This isn’t the right spoon,” he said, picking it up. “Where’s my soup spoon?”

I took a deep breath and walked back to the kitchen.

“That’s the one.” He nodded. “Birds carved on the handle.”

I shook my head and went to my room.
First I heard the spoon touch the bowl, then the sound of slurping. When the metal struck the tray, I walked back in. His neck was positioned between the lazyboy's massage rollers, his eyes closed.

As I picked up the tray, he licked his lip.

"Don't forget the cake," he said.