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THE WIDOW'S SOUP8 pm, December 31st, 1999:afraid the electricity might shut off, she bakes squash, one of his tofu recipes, and finally heats up the corn chowder with ramen noodles and peas from the freezer-- a combination of instant soups laden with the salty tang of bouillon broth. Planning comfort food for a late hour is natural for her. When they first met thirty years ago, he would get off work at nine and stop for white wine to go with their dinner at ten. Now she is making soup for a ghost, coming home tired and hungry from purgatory where he has been counting souls and worrying about them one by one. He is still her all-time favorite ghost, thin and humorous with a European laugh and mouth with big teeth. She makes soup because she can think of nothing else to do. He would rather have meat than noodles, but she's running out of time. She has kept his old jeans and t-shirts with cuts under the arms to make them more roomy for just such an occasion. She has placed his burgundy sweater on the back of a chair at the table just in case he still feels the cold. He has never come back before, but on this night when the flames of a billion twentieth-century candles grow brighter, flicker, then go out, she believes he can pass through the webs of isolation and forgetfulnesses and appear-- for her. She wants him to hear him ask apologetically for a sandwich of raw onions and garlic: that has always given him the strength and kept him from getting the flu. Add some oil and vinegar, and forget about the bread-- that's all he'll need to get through eternity's night. She will wipe the glass table and set out shallow, clean bowls before she hears his soft tap at the door. |
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Issue #19, March, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.