Saturday, May 22, 2010

Last Supper

She loves camping without a tent.
She loves the wind.
I wonder is she feels it now,
blowing the trees that shade the old cemetery.

I pick up a loaf of Italian bread,
cut it in half lengthwise.
Spread softened butter on each side. A whole stick of butter.
Sprinkle liberally with salt.
Not fancy sea salt or black salt or volcano salt or even kosher salt,
just ordinary table salt.
"When it rains, it pours."
Yes. When it rains, it pours.
A whole loaf of Italian bread and a whole stick of butter and a lot of salt.
I eat it methodically, one slow bite at a time, chewing twenty times with each bite,
until it's gone, washed down with Tab,
and wonder when my chicken parmigiana will be served.

I cannot sit shiva, not by Law, but I can share a last meal with her.

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