Getting Through It

Getting Through It

Adam and I shop for lunch.

I told him I could make us an omelette

but he said, ‘No no, don’t use your food.’

(My sons like to spoil me

when they come as guests to my house.)

We bring the shopping back home 

and he makes us sandwiches

of sourdough bread, tomatoes,

roast beef, avocado and curly lettuce.

They are fresh and good.

Then we get up and go

on the long drive to Nimbin,

to Letitia’s memorial service –

our not daughter, not sister

by blood or marriage, but who was.

There, I drink lemon, lime and bitters.

Must stay sober to make my speech.

He has two beers only. He’s driving.

We hug a lot of people, blink back tears,

hardly touch the refreshments afterwards.

(Our girl was a foodie, and a chef.

She used to love to feed us up,

to cook unusual dishes, foreign cuisine.

Left to ourselves, Adam and I 

tend to like wholesome, simple food.)

Home again at last, that night,

we devour my home-made soup

with more of the sourdough

and later, just before bed, enjoy 

a taste of the special gelato I bought.

We also open the waiting bottles of wine 

as soon as we get in: white for him, red for me;

get through two large glasses each 

quite quickly; sigh; reminisce; even laugh …

yawn, go to bed early, sleep unusually late.

Linked to Poets United's Midweek Motif ~ The Food We Eat