Old Woman Being Fed Stew
It’s good. And reminds her of something. Not reminds her, but lets her watch good weather come rolling this way. Not weather, but coming this way free and clear in spite of all those streets whose names she no longer knows, no longer needs to.
Her son feeds her. Each piece of carrot takes its own time. The spoon holds a whole day. He’s traded in his own calendar to do this. For this he’s received the way light looks in the morning when a woman feeds her baby. The baby is in a garden. Scattered in the grass he finds, like bright pretty things, all the time in the world.
His husband watches him. He feels someone enter the room with the morning light, someone drawn to simple things, and quiet. The husband thinks, this is why I married.
Peter Cashorali thinks that now is a weird time to have made it to. Weirder still to think what it was born from.
