These days, all he seemed to eat
Was soup.
He could barely bear
To fill the bare cupboards
With anything but soup.
He did not cook.
That was always her doing.
For 43 years,
She was the feeder of his appetite
And his soul.
The love of his life,
His heart-twin kite,
That carried his soul beyond the clouds;
And now she was gone.
He had watched her hold on
For the last few weeks of her life
Barely able to take a breath.
Her beautiful silver hair had been stolen away,
The loot of the most terrible, thieving fiend of all;
Chemotherapy.
He had sat visiting with her in the hospital,
Never leaving the laminate room,
Eating nothing but soup.
Even then, even with
The pain, and wheezing, and shame
Of her last days
She still managed to take his breath away.
Now, she was gone
But he was not.
He bore the grief with stunning dexterity
The only way he knew how;
By doing ordinary things.
By resolving to eat soup.
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