Once, greeting me at the door
at midnight when I’d come home
again after my week after week
of working in the city, you took
my bags and led me to the table.
You took from the refrigerator
a few green peppers, a handful
of mushrooms, a small onion
which you diced into quarters.
A slick of oil sizzled in the pan.
You crushed a clove of garlic
and sautéed the medley, soy-
spattered, which I ate and ate
until nothing remained
in the bowl of rice. I think
of that meal sometimes and try
without success to bring it all
back together on my stove.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES