Tonight I delivered a meal
to a friend
She has a casserole disease
But I took her salad, pasta, and dessert.
She can’t even eat it
of the nausea
And she can’t taste or smell or enjoy such simplicity
as a fresh garden salad or spinach and feta stuffed sausage.
We talked. I made small talk. I am terrible at small talk.
But, I love her and I wanted her to know.
I saw the fear in her eyes, the tremor in her voice, the tightness of her lips-
It pooled in dark circles around her eyes
Those beautiful piercing blue eyes that
Sparkled when she talked about her family
Shone when she shared about her students
And glinted when she was mad or protective.
She is worn. She is spent.
So, I brought her a meal
Not a casserole
Not a cure
Just a meal