It’s too warm for soup, but I am homesick this afternoon.
I chop carrots and celery and onions,
Placing them into the water
With sprigs of parsley and
And I am caught in a memory-stirring moment—
The movement of hands and fingers,
The scent of fresh vegetables and spices,
The hot smell of simmering stock...
I remember the photographs I threw away
So I would not think about the angle of your neck
When you lean in to kiss me,
Or see the soft, vulnerable skin under your jaw
As you stretch in the morning.
I threw all of those photographs away…
To erase the images of your hand on my back,
Your grin at the birthday party,
And our sunset shadows, mingled,
Like short stories waiting to happen.
The photographs are gone,
And I am walking determined.
This is my kitchen, and this is my chicken soup.
But almost-ghosts are everywhere
(the Things That-Might-Have-Been),
Despite my best efforts to erase them.
They wander through the city with me,
Quietly keeping me company as I laugh with
Whispering suggestions as I shop
Singing along with the songs stuck in my head.