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