I walk into his kitchen, place the heavy pot upon the stove and turn a knob while saying hi, how are you doing? I tell him all it needs is just to bring it back to pressure, let the steam build up, for otherwise the corned beef and cabbage is already done. He points to flowers on the table, a bouquet still wrapped in cellophane that doesn’t hide a white-wrapped package underneath. For you, he says, because of all you’ve done. I see my name scrawled awkwardly on paper. No need, I think, but then I know that even in the closest there are deeds that need the recognition. My meal is mine of his. I smile and sniff the flowers, lay them down and pick at tape to open up his gift—a flashlight, batteries included.
How are YOU doing? he asks, and rises through his tears and mine to hold each other through and past the moment.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology